“Aye, indeed, Ada. Our joys and our sorrows are all comparative. You, in your pure innocence, my dear Ada, have yet to learn how many an aching heart is hidden by wreathed smiles.” “’Tis very strange,” said Ada, musingly. “’Tis very strange that we should be unhappy, and the world so beautiful. To live—to have freedom and liberty—to go wherever the wayward fancy leads me, seem to me a great enjoyment. The birds—the sunshine—the flowers—ay, each blade of grass trembling and glistening with its weight of morning dew, is to me a source of delightful contemplation—I am sure all might be happy, the green fields and the sunny sky are so very beautiful.” “There are evils, Ada.” “Yes—sickness, pain, the loss of those we love, are all evils,” said Ada. “But then we have a thousand consolations even from them, in the ever fresh and never dying beauties of nature around us.” “Ada, with your feelings, death, pain, and sickness of ourselves, of those we loves may well appear the greatest evils of existence. Yet strange as it may seem to you, such is the perversity of human nature, that these are the very things that affect it least.” “You surprise me.” “And well I may. The cares, the anxieties, the awful horrors of existence to the many, arise from their artificial desires, and the mad riot of their own bad passions. Avarice affects some—ambition, and the love of power, others; and many who could, without a pang, see rent the natural ties of love and kindred, will lay violent hands upon their own lives, if they fail in some mad effort of their own wild passions.” “Oh,” cried Ada, “I think that I could be so happy without power—without wealth—my own ambition is to be surrounded by kind and loving hearts, and happy faces—tongues that knew no guile, and breasts that harboured no suspicion. Surely then, enough of variety might be found, in watching the wonders of the changing seasons—enough of joy in marking the many charms which He who made us all, has cast around us for our pleasure.” “You, my dear Ada, have the elements of happiness in your heart; but now that we are alone, have you sufficient confidence in me, to tell me at length all your history?” “Confidence?” said Ada. “Oh, yes; and in whom could I have confidence, if not in you?” “Then sit here by me, and tell me all. We will be mutually confidential, Ada, and have no secrets but in common. Now tell me, is your happinesss quite perfect? Have you no secret yearning of the heart yet ungratified, Ada?” “My happiness,” said Ada, “is perfect with hope—a hope that must surely ripen into a dear reality.” “Then you have a hope—a wish that lives upon hope—an expectation yet ungratified, Ada?”