Easter time lay over the land--a time of radiance and music, of birds and flowers. Hearts beat happily in tune to the joy of an awakening spring, and the golden lily-hearts were reflected in every smile.
It was Easter time, the time of youth and brightness and resurrection--hardly the time for Weariness to visit the girl; but with head bent toward her he was leaning over her chair, talking softly, persuasively in her ear.
"You're tired," he told her as his old feet (for Weariness is as old as the world itself) beat a tattoo on the worn floor. "You're bored, you want something new."
"I'm tired," murmured the girl gazing dreamily into space--for she did not see Weariness standing before her--"I'm bored. I want something different from this work-a-day world."
Weariness sat down in the chair and prepared for a comfortable chat. He had made a good beginning and he meant to improve his time.
"You dislike everybody, even the strangers on the street," he prompted with a thin-lipped, disagreeable smile.
"I dislike everybody that I know," said the girl with a defiant stamp of her foot. "I dislike everybody with not one exception."
"You're doing well," he commented with a chuckle. "I'm proud of you, girl! You're tired--you're bored. You dislike everybody with no exception. Perhaps nobody likes you."
"Nobody loves me," echoed the girl; "not a soul. If I were starving nobody would help me! If I were freezing nobody would help me."
"Unpopular girl," said Weariness happily, looking across the room at the bright hair and pretty features of his companion. "To look at you no one would imagine it. Your eyes are blue and your hair isn't gray--it's young hair. Isn't it sad that your life should be so tragic?"
"It is sad." Again the girl stamped her foot. "It's more than sad; it's terrible. I guess you'd think so too, if you were me." And she started to cry, head on folded arms, shoulders shaking convulsively. "I'm tired," she sobbed.
Outside the sun glowed over a world of flowers and springtime. Inside, the same sun, grown dusty, fell on the crying girl and the cynical, world-old figure seated before her.
The door opened softly and a breath of air--cool, bracing air--stole in. The girl, head in arm, did not notice it. But Weariness raised his eyes to the opening door and sniffed at the freshness of the breeze. And as he gazed a figure came in with brisk, quick step--the figure of a young man, lithe, and handsome, and smiling. A white fillet bound his crisp black hair to his head, and a pair of white-winged sandals clung to his feet.
Weariness raised himself from his chair and gazed at the newcomer. Then he turned his eyes away and yawned.
"You're not wanted here," he said, "young man. She's discouraged, and tired, and bored. She doesn't want you."
"She does want me," said the boyish one, "but she doesn't realize it. I am the Spirit of Happiness and Sunshine and Love. Every young person needs me, whether they know it or not. Of course she wants me."
Weariness yawned again and brushed his hand carelessly over his eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked crossly.
The young man drew himself up proudly, and stood before the bent form with the radiance of sunlight shining out of his eyes.
"I," he said, "am Youth!" And he turned swiftly and went over to the crying girl and touched her on the shoulder.
"Friend," he told her, "my friend, I am here with you."
The girl raised her face and looked with tear-stained swollen eyes past the radiant figure. (She did not see him but she heard his voice.)
"Who are you?" she whispered. "I did not know that I had a friend."
"You haven't," Weariness snapped from his stand by the chair. "Nobody loves you--you hate everybody."
"I am Youth," answered the young man pleasantly, ignoring the interruption. "And I am not your only friend. The whole world loves you."
The girl was staring past Youth to Weariness--staring with a hopelessness in her eyes.
"He's right," she whispered. "I hate--everybody."
Youth started forward impetuously and laid his hand on her arm.
"You don't--you can't," he protested. "Think of your school chums, think of your teachers, think of your church. Do you hate the little laughing babies that play in the sunlight in the park? Do you hate the little lame newsboy with his smile and his crutches? Think of your family--your mother."
The girl wiped her eyes with a fluffy bit of lace handkerchief, and looked down sheepishly. "I forgot them," she murmured. But Youth was talking again.
"You say that nobody loves you?" he asked her. "You dare to say that? How about your Sunday school class, and your pastor, and all the people that you love? Don't you think that they return your affection?"
The girl was smiling now. A watery, nearly-happy little smile.
"I didn't think," she cried softly. Then her face clouded. "But I'm tired to death. I'm bored," she added.
"Oh," said Youth tenderly, "you're wrong, little girl. Why, you're hardly more than a child yet. Your life has just begun. You aren't tired. I can see a pathway standing before you, clear-cut against the horizon line. I see milestones against that pathway, white, shining milestones. And they are marked 'Happiness' and 'Duty' and 'Achievement' and 'Love.' Yet you say that you are tired and bored."
The girl started up from her seat, and spoke impulsively, all her tiredness swept away.
"Forgive me," she begged, "for talking so. I didn't mean a word of it. I won't talk that way again. I'm going on--smiling--down my pathway."
Then the Young Man sprang forward and taking her face between his hands he kissed her softly.
"Go," he said, "my friend. Life lies before you, and you have the kiss of Youth on your brow."
Then Weariness slunk away.
Outside the sun threw dancing shadows across the awakening earth. It was Easter time.
More Margaret Elizabeth Sangster Short Stories
