Miss Grief and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jacob Bœhmen, chiliastic dreams, Christianity, sun-worship, and modern spiritualism,” I said. “Much learning hath made the Maine farmer mad.”
    â€œIs he mad?” said Raymond. “Sometimes I think we are all mad.”
    â€œWe should certainly become so if we spent our time in speculations upon subjects clearly beyond our reach. The whole race of philosophers from Plato down are all the time going round in a circle. As long as we are in the world, I for one propose to keep my feet on solid ground; especially as we have no wings. ‘Abide here, and perhaps the spirits will speak to you,’ did he say? I think very likely they will, and to such good purpose that you won’t have any mind left.”
    â€œAfter all, why should not spirits speak to us?” said Raymond, in a musing tone.
    As he uttered these words the mocking laugh of a loon came across the dark waste.
    â€œThe very loons are laughing at you,” I said, rising. “Come down; there is a chill in the air, composed in equal parts of the Flats, the night, and Waiting Samuel. Come down, man; come down to the warm kitchen and common-sense.”
    We found Roxana alone by the fire, whose glow was refreshinglyreal and warm; it was like the touch of a flesh-and-blood hand, after vague dreamings of spirit-companions, cold and intangible at best, with the added suspicion that, after all, they are but creations of our own fancy, and even their spirit-nature fictitious. Prime, the graceful raconteur who goes a-fishing, says, “firelight is as much of a polisher in-doors as moonlight outside.” It is; but with a different result. The moonlight polishes everything into romance, the firelight into comfort. We brought up two remarkably easy old chairs in front of the hearth and sat down, Raymond still adrift with his wandering thoughts, I, as usual, making talk out of the present. Roxana sat opposite, knitting in hand, the cat purring at her feet. She was a slender woman, with faded light hair, insignificant features, small dull blue eyes, and a general aspect which, with every desire to state at its best, I can only call commonplace. Her gown was limp, her hands roughened with work, and there was no collar around her yellow throat. O magic rim of white, great is thy power! With thee, man is civilized; without thee, he becomes at once a savage.
    â€œI am out of pork,” remarked Roxana, casually; “I must go over to the mainland to-morrow and get some.”
    If it had been anything but pork! In truth, the word did not chime with the mystic conversation of Waiting Samuel. Yes; there was no doubt about it. Roxana’s mind was sadly commonplace.
    â€œSee what I have found,” I said, after a while, taking out the old breastpin. “The stone is gone; but who knows? It might have been a diamond dropped by some French duchess, exiled, and fleeing for life across these far Western waters; or perhaps that German Princess of Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other,who, about one hundred years ago, was dead and buried in Russia, and travelling in America at the same time, a sort of a female wandering Jew, who has been done up in stories ever since.”
    (The other day, in Bret Harte’s “Melons,” I saw the following: “The singular conflicting conditions of John Brown’s body and soul were, at that time, beginning to attract the attention of American youth.” That is good, isn’t it? Well, at the time I visited the Flats, the singular conflicting conditions of the Princess of Brunswick-Wolfen-something-or-other had, for a long time, haunted me.)
    Roxana’s small eyes were near-sighted; she peered at the empty setting, but said nothing.
    â€œIt is water-logged,” I continued, holding it up in the firelight, “and it hath a brassy odor; nevertheless, I feel convinced that it belonged to the princess.”
    Roxana leaned forward and took the trinket; I lifted up my arms and