Page:A Leaf in the Storm.djvu/114

 It is strange—strange and most terrible. And still I think they know not what they do. They are subtle for very play; they are cruel for mere sport; they devour what loves them by their simple instinct, as the young kitten dallies with its mouse. Others have said this all much better than I say it? Oh yes, no doubt—only to every man, when he suffers, it seems new, and he thinks no wound was ever yet so deep, or dealt in such utter wantonness, as his has been.

Well, we tarried in that place until all the blossoms of the lilacs had died off, and above the low stone walls, and between the gables of the streets, and in the gardens slanting to the water's edge, there flowered in their stead the tall silver lilies and the radiant roses of the summer-time. My lilac bough was withered and colourless as dust, but in its stead there budded for me the wonder-flower of a supreme happiness. She came often-times to our play-house with some of the towns-people, and I thought, or cheated myself into thinking, that after she had seen me act she grew to despise me less. The nights she was not there I played ill, very ill, I know: our chief rated me gravely many a