While I gazed a sudden shower came pattering downupon the leaves. In a moment the air was full of brightness，each raindrop catching a portion of sunlight as it fell，and the whole gentle shower appearing like a mist， justsubstantial enough to bear the burden of radiance. Arainbow vivid as Niagara’s was painted in the air. Itssouthern limb came down before the group of trees andenveloped the fair vision as if the hues of heaven were theonly garment for her beauty. When the rainbow vanished，she who had seemed a part of it was no longer there. Washer existence absorbed in nature’s loveliest phenomenon，and did her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light？
Yet I would not despair of her return， for， robed in therainbow， she was the emblem of Hope.
Thus did the vision leave me， and many a doleful daysucceeded to the parting moment. By the spring and inthe wood and on the hill and through the village， at dewysunrise， burning noon， and at that magic hour of sunset，when she had vanished from my sight， I sought her， but invain. Weeks came and went， months rolled away， and sheappeared not in them. I imparted my mystery to none， butwandered to and fro or sat in solitude like one that hadcaught a glimpse of heaven and could take no more joy onearth. I withdrew into an inner world where my thoughtslived and breathed， and the vision in the midst of them.
Without intending it， I became at once the author andhero of a romance， conjuring up rivals， imagining events，the actions of others and my own， and experiencing everychange of passion， till jealousy and despair had their endin bliss. Oh， had I the burning fancy of my early youthwith manhood’s colder gift， the power of expression， yourhearts， sweet ladies， should flutter at my tale.
In the middle of January I was summoned home. Theday before my departure， visiting the spots which hadbeen hallowed by the vision， I found that the spring hada frozen bosom， and nothing but the snow and a glare ofwinter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. “Let me hope，”
thought I， “or my heart will be as icy as the fountain andthe whole world as desolate as this snowy hill.” Most ofthe day was spent in preparing for the journey， which wasto commence at four o’clock the next morning. About anhour after supper， when all was in readiness， I descendedfrom my chamber to the sitting-room to take leave ofthe old clergyman and his family with whom I had beenan inmate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passedthrough the entry.
According to their invariable custom—so pleasant aone when the fire blazes cheerfully—the family weresitting in the parlor with no other light than what camefrom the hearth. As the good clergyman’s scanty stipendcompelled him to use all sorts of economy， the foundationof his fires was always a large heap of tan， or ground bark，which would smoulder away from morning till night witha dull warmth and no flame. This evening the heap oftan was newly put on and surmounted with three sticksof red oak full of moisture， and a few pieces of dry pinethat had not yet kindled. There was no light except thelittle that came sullenly from two half-burnt brands，without even glimmering on the andirons. But I knew theposition of the old minister’s arm-chair， and also wherehis wife sat with her knitting-work， and how to avoid histwo daughters—one a stout country lass， and the other aconsumptive girl. Groping through the gloom， I found myown place next to that of the son， a learned collegian whohad come home to keep school in the village during thewinter vacation. I noticed that there was less room thanusual to-night between the collegian’s chair and mine.
As people are always taciturn in the dark， not a wordwas said for some time after my entrance. Nothing brokethe stillness but the regular click of the matron’s knittingneedles.
At times the fire threw out a brief and duskygleam which twinkled on the old man’s glasses and hovereddoubtfully round our circle， but was far too faint toportray the individuals who composed it. Were we not likeghosts？ Dreamy as the scene was， might it not be a type ofthe mode in which departed people who had known andloved each other here would hold communion in eternity？
We were aware of each other’s presence， not by sight norsound nor touch， but by an inward consciousness. Wouldit not be so among the dead？
The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughteraddressing a remark to some one in the circle whom shecalled Rachel. Her tremulous and decayed accents wereanswered by a single word， but in a voice that made mestart and bend toward the spot whence it had proceeded.
Had I ever heard that sweet， low tone？ If not， why didit rouse up so many old recollections， or mockeries ofsuch， the shadows of things familiar yet unknown， and fillmy mind with confused images of her features who hadspoken， though buried in the gloom of the parlor？ Whomhad my heart recognized， that it throbbed so？ I listened tocatch her gentle breathing， and strove by the intensity ofmy gaze to picture forth a shape where none was visible.
Suddenly the dry pine caught； the fire blazed up with aruddy glow， and where the darkness had been， there wasshe—the vision of the fountain. A spirit of radiance only，she had vanished with the rainbow and appeared againin the firelight， perhaps to flicker with the blaze and begone. Vet her cheek was rosy and lifelike， and her features，in the bright warmth of the room， were even sweeter andtenderer than my recollection of them. She knew me.
The mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyesand dimpled over her countenance when I beheld herfaint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimplingthere now. One moment our glance mingled； the next，down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood， anddarkness snatched away that daughter of the light， andgave her back to me no more！
Fair ladies， there is nothing more to tell. Must thesimple mystery be revealed， then， that Rachel was thedaughter of the village squire and had left home for aboarding-school the morning after I arrived and returnedthe day before my departure？ If I transformed her to anangel， it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress.
Therein consists the essence of my story. But slight thechange， sweet maids， to make angels of yourselves.
