THE LISTENER. 
169 
was permitted to withdraw. The upper piazza of 
the seminary overlooked a lively little stieam, 
which gleamed before us a moment in the sun¬ 
shine, and then went singing its sweet song 
through the shady woods which skirted the vil¬ 
lages. Its beauty arrested my gaze, but not my 
thoughts : they were too sad to be wen by an ap¬ 
peal to the eye only, and soon the tears came 
trickling down my cheek, and a bob told my 
wretchedness. At this moment a gentle step 
aroused me, and an arm passed ovdr my shoulder, 
while a soft voice said to me, 
« Little friend, why do you weep ? There is an 
old Arabic proverb which says, ‘ Running waters 
make the heart glad;’ and can you look upon that 
merry brooklet and give way to sadness ? ” and 
then, drawing me towards her, while she passed 
her hand over my forehead, she continued, — 
v 
“ What grief should thy years know'? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them.' 1 
A beautiful face, as well as a sweet voice, had 
this fair speaker. O, how I afterwards loved 
that face, with its bright complexion, white fore¬ 
head, dim with the shadow of rich brown tresses, 
with its full ruby lips, and, more than all, the 
large, dark, earnest eyes, from which “ I drank in 
soul! ” Helen Conway was then “just seventeen 
she was above the usual height some called her 
i 
