From this dream--why should we call it a dream?--Is it not a blessed
reality?--Is not young, fervent love, true love? Alas! this is an
evil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is too
often a tearful awaking. Often, too often, hearts are suddenly torn
asunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leave
hard, disfiguring scars. But this is not always so. Pure love
sometimes finds its own sweet reward. I will relate one precious
instance.
The Baron Holbein, after having passed ten years of active life in a
large metropolitan city of Europe, retired to his estate in a
beautiful and fertile valley, far away from the gay circle of
fashion--far away from the sounds of political rancor with which he
had been too long familiar--far away from the strife of selfish men
and contending interests. He had an only child, Nina, just fifteen
years of age. For her sake, as well as to indulge his love of quiet
and nature, he had retired from the world. Her mother had been with
the angels for some years. Without her wise counsels and watchful
care, the father feared to leave his innocent-minded child exposed
to the temptations that must gather around her in a large city.
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