Jewel Weed

Easter came late in April, when, to match man's mood, it should come;

for the world was alive with new vitality. The south winds were infusing

their wonder-working heats, and the bluebirds flashing their streaks of

color through branches that felt the stir of sap, amid buds that

strained to burst. There was the smell of growth where bits of "secret

greenness" hid behind the dead leaves of last fall.

On Saturday evening Mrs. Lenox welcomed the same circle that had met at

her home the November before, and Lena's little heart glowed with the

soul-satisfying sense of the difference to her. Then she had been a

social waif, received on sufferance. Now she was one of them. She could

even afford to have her own opinions. The very memory of past

discomforts doubled the present blessedness, and Mr. Lenox looked only

half the size that he had six months before. It was a long stride to

have taken in half a year, and with reason she congratulated herself on

her cleverness. In Mr. Lenox's gravity of manner as he took her in to

dinner, she perceived only respect for Mrs. Percival, not knowing that

he had in mind the small episode of the Chatterer, which his wife and

Miss Elton had agreed to ignore.

"What very sensible people we are!" exclaimed Mrs. Lenox as she surveyed

her small table party. "We shall spend to-morrow in hunting for anemones

instead of looking at our neighbors' spring fineries; we shall catch the

first robin at his love song, instead of listening to the cut and dried,

much-practised church music; and we shall find rest to our souls. Dick,

I am sure you need it. You look worn out. I'm afraid politics is proving

a hard mistress."

"I wonder if it is possible to do too much," said Dick, rousing himself,

with manifest languor. "It's only the way he does it that plays a man

out. Here's Ellery, now, who works like a galley slave and looks as

fresh as the proverbial daisy."

"Well, come, you are criticizing yourself even more severely," Mr. Lenox

said. "You'll have to learn the secret, Dick, of letting your arms and

legs and brain work for you, while your inner man remains at peace.

That's the only way an American man can live in these hustling days; and

if you don't master it, the young men will come in and carry you out by

the time that you are fifty."

"And there are worse things than that," rejoined Dick. "I suppose it is

the universal experience that when one gets out of the freedom of

extreme youth and settles down to the jog-trot, harnessed life, the way

looks rather long and monotonous. A fellow can't help feeling tired to

think how tired he'll be before he gets to the end. To-night I feel as

old and dry as a mummy. If you touch me, I'll crumble."