I think I never shall be so solitary as I have been. That good heart, pure and unselfish as I never saw woman's before, will always incline kindly to as much of mine as I dare show; those sweet, honest eyes will never be less trustful than now--unless I gave them cause to doubt me. Her friendship, like her character, is steadfast as a rock. But oh! if she _loved_ me! If I were one of those poor clerks at a hundred a-year; if we had only meat, raiment, and a roof to cover us, and she loved me! If I were, as I might have been, a young doctor, toiling day and night, with barely time for food and sleep; but with a home to come to, and her to love me! If we sat in this room, poor and mean as it is, with this scanty supper between us, asking a blessing upon it, while, her hand in mine and her lips on my forehead, told me, “Max, I love you!” God forgive me if I murmur! I am not young; my life is slipping away--my life, which is _owed_. Oh! that I might live long enough to teach her to say, “Max, I love you!” Enough. The last minutes of this year--this blessed year! shall not be wasted in moans. Already the streets are growing quiet. People do not seem to keep this festival here as we do, north of the Tweed; they think more of Christmas. Most likely she will have forgotten all about the day, and be peacefully sleeping the old year out and the new year in--this little English girl. Well, I am awake, and that will do for both. My letter to Treherne--could you have seen it? I suppose you did. It made no excuses for not coming at Christmas, because I intended to come and see you as to-morrow. I mean to wish you a happy New Year, on this, the first since I knew you, since I was aware of there being such a little creature existing in the world. Also, I mean to come and see you every New Year, if possible. The word possible, implying so far as my own will can control circumstances. I desire to see you; it is life to me to see you, and see you I will. Not often, for I dare not, but as often as I dare. And--for I have faith in anniversaries, always on the anniversary of the day I first saw you, and on New Year's Day. One--two--three; I waited for the clock to cease striking, and now all the bells are ringing from every church-tower. Is this an English custom? I must ask you tomorrow, that is, to-day, for it is morning--it is the New Year. My day-dawn, my gift of God, my little English girl, a happy New Year! Max Urquhart. CHAPTER VI. HER STORY. |New Year's Morning. So, this long-anticipated festival-week is ended, and the old year gone. Poor old year!= ```"He gave me a friend and true, true love, ```And the New Year will take them away."= Ah, no, no, no!