[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER] VOL. VIII.—NO. 368.] JANUARY 15, 1887. [PRICE ONE PENNY. THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY. A PASTORALE. BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc. [Illustration: “HE STOPPED AND WANTED TO KNOW WHERE SHE WAS GOING.”] _All rights reserved._] CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING A HORSESHOE. The greater part of the majority of lives is passed in a groove. Sometimes a great crash comes, and all the machinery is put out of gear, but then the life is resumed, and all goes on quietly again—not as before, the change was too violent for that, but in another groove, in which it moves until another crisis comes. These crises come to all, even the most uneventful lives, but they come oftener to some than to others, and when they do come they invariably come suddenly and in the most unexpected way. Let the road of life be ever so long and straight and dull and monotonous, it is sure to lead to a turning some day, though, perhaps, the new road on which we enter with such hope and zest may be longer and duller and rougher than the first. And, after all, monotonous lives are often the happiest, though the young are very sceptical on this point, until their own lives have been upset by one or two of the great changes which come sooner or later to everyone. Jack’s sudden departure was such a crisis in his life, and, indeed, it affected the whole family, though after he was gone they settled down again into the old quiet daily routine. It was not the same as before; it never is. This is really the sad part of it; not that life is monotonous, as people often complain, but that after a great change, no matter how brief—a few minutes may be long enough to effect such a change—but after such a change the life can never go on again exactly the same as it was before; it may be happier or the reverse. One thing is certain, it will never be the same again. And the older we grow the more sad does it seem that the good old times are gone for ever—they can never come back any more. Our children grow up and are both a blessing and a comfort to our fading lives, but the days are gone for ever when the curly-headed cherub, now a man of six feet high, awoke us at unearthly hours for a romp, before a sepulchral voice outside announced that his bath was ready, to our intense relief. He has cherubs of his own now, and can sympathise with our feelings, when the nurse’s knock was heard, and the time will come when he too, like us, will wish in vain for those happy days to return.