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The Word Of Praise
by
“Just one kind glance, Henry, one little kiss, one word of love and praise.”
And then as he bent fondly over her, that cold, fixed expression, which she had so long worn, would again steal over her countenance, and mournfully she added,
“Too late, too late. The heart is seared and dead. See, little Eva stands and beckons me to the land of love. Yes, dear one, I come.”
But the crisis came, and though feeble as an infant, the physicians declared the danger past. Careful nursing, and freedom from excitement, would restore the wife and mother to her family.
With unequalled tenderness did her husband watch over her, but with returning health returned also that unnatural frigidity of manner. There was no response to his words or looks of love.
Was it, indeed, too late? Had his knowledge of the wants of a woman’s heart come only when the heart, which once beat for him alone, had become as stone?
It was the anniversary of their marriage. Eleven years before they had stood at the altar and taken those holy vows. Well did Henry Howard recollect that bridal morning. And how had he fulfilled the trust reposed in him? With bitter remorse he gazed upon the wreck before him, and thought of that gentle being once so full of love and joy.
An earnest prayer broke from his lips, and his arms were clasped around her.
“Mary, dear Mary,” he whispered, “may not the past be forgotten? Grievously have I erred, but believe me, it has been partly through ignorance. An orphan from my earliest childhood, I knew not the blessing of a mother’s love. Cold and stern in my nature, I comprehended not the wants of your gentle spirit. I see it all now: your constant self-denial, your untiring efforts to please, until, wearied and discouraged, your very heart’s-blood seemed chilled within you, and you became the living image of that cold heartlessness which had caused the fearful change.
“But may we not forget the past? Will you not be once more my loving, joyous bride, and the remainder of my life shall be devoted to your happiness?”
Almost fearful was the agitation which shook that feeble frame, and it was long before there was a reply.
At length, in the words of little Eva, she whispered, “Oh my husband! My own dear husband! My heart is so glad! I had thought it cold and dead, but now it again beats responsive to your words of love. The prayers of my angel-child have been answered, and happiness will yet be ours. My dear, dear Eva, how often have I wept as I thought of my coldness toward her, and yet all power to show my earnest love seemed gone for ever.”
“It slumbered, dearest, but it is not gone. The breath of affection will again revive your warm-hearted, generous nature, and our remaining little ones will rejoice in the sunshine of a mother’s love. Our Eva, from her heavenly home, will gaze with joy upon those she held so dear.”
Another year, and few would have recognised that once dreary home.
Life’s sunbeams shone brightly now. Those little messengers to the human heart,–the look of love, the gentle touch, the word of praise,–all, all were there. Trifles in themselves, but ah, how essential to the spirit’s Life!