At fifteen , I became a resident in a country village , more than a hundred miles from home .
The morning after my arrival -- a September morning , but warm and bright as any in July -- I rambled into a wood of oaks , with a few walnut-trees intermixed , forming the closest shade above my head .
The ground was rocky , uneven , overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings , and traversed only by cattle-paths .
The track , which I chanced to follow , led me to a crystal spring , with a border of grass , as freshly green as on May morning , and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak .
One solitary sunbeam found its way down , and played like a goldfish in the water .
From my childhood , I have loved to gaze into a spring .
The water filled a circular basin , small but deep , and set round with stones , some of which were covered with slimy moss , the others naked , and of variegated hue , reddish , white , and brown .
The bottom was covered with coarse sand , which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam , and seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light .
In one spot , the gush of the water violently agitated the sand , but without obscuring the fountain , or breaking the glassiness of its surface .
It appeared as if some living creature were about to emerge -- the Naiad of the spring , perhaps -- in the shape of a beautiful young woman , with a gown of filmy water-moss , a belt of rainbow-drops , and a cold , pure , passionless countenance .
How would the beholder shiver , pleasantly , yet fearfully , to see her sitting on one of the stones , paddling her white feet in the ripples , and throwing up water , to sparkle in the sun !
Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers , they would immediately be moist , as with morning dew .
Then would she set about her labors , like a careful housewife , to clear the fountain of withered leaves , and bits of slimy wood , and old acorns from the oaks above , and grains of corn left by cattle in drinking , till the bright sand , in the bright water , were like a treasury of diamonds .
But , should the intruder approach too near , he would find only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her .
Reclining on the border of grass , where the dewy goddess should have been , I bent forward , and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror .
They were the reflection of my own .
I looked again , and lo !
another face , deeper in the fountain than my own image , more distinct in all the features , yet faint as thought .
The vision had the aspect of a fair young girl , with locks of paly gold .
A mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance , till it seemed just what a fountain would be , if , while dancing merrily into the sunshine , it should assume the shape of woman .
Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks , I could see the brown leaves , the slimy twigs , the acorns , and the sparkling sand .
The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the golden hair , which melted into its faint brightness , and became a glory round that head so beautiful !
My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted , and how soon it was left desolate .
I breathed ; and there was the face !
I held my breath ; and it was gone !
Had it passed away , or faded into nothing ?
I doubted whether it had ever been .
My sweet readers , what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend , where that vision found and left me !
For a long time I sat perfectly still , waiting till it should reappear , and fearful that the slightest motion , or even the flutter of my breath , might frighten it away .
Thus have I often started from a pleasant dream , and then kept quiet , in hopes to wile it back .
Deep were my musings , as to the race and attributes of that ethereal being .
Had I created her ?
Was she the daughter of my fancy , akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of children 's eyes ?
And did her beauty gladden me , for that one moment , and then die ?
Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain , or fairy , or woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder , or the ghost of some forsaken maid , who had drowned herself for love ?
Or , in good truth , had a lovely girl , with a warm heart , and lips that would bear pressure , stolen softly behind me , and thrown her image into the spring ?
I watched and waited , but no vision came again .
I departed , but with a spell upon me , which drew me back , that same afternoon , to the haunted spring .
There was the water gushing , the sand sparkling , and the sunbeam glimmering .
There the vision was not , but only a great frog , the hermit of that solitude , who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible , all except a pair of long legs , beneath a stone .
Methought he had a devilish look !
I could have slain him !
Thus did the Vision leave me ; and many a doleful day succeeded to the parting moment .
By the spring , and in the wood , and on the hill , and through the village ; at dewy sunrise , burning noon , and at that magic hour of sunset , when she had vanished from my sight , I sought her , but in vain .
Weeks came and went , months rolled away , and she appeared not in them .
I imparted my mystery to none , but wandered to and fro , or sat in solitude , like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven , and could take no more joy on earth .
I withdrew into an inner world , where my thoughts lived and breathed , and the Vision in the midst of them .
Without intending it , I became at once the author and hero of a romance , conjuring up rivals , imagining events , the actions of others and my own , and experiencing every change of passion , till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss .
O , had I the burning fancy of my early youth , with manhood 's colder gift , the power of expression , your hearts , sweet ladies , should flutter at my tale !
In the middle of January , I was summoned home .
The day before my departure , visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the Vision , I found that the spring had a frozen bosom , and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sunshine , on the hill of the rainbow .
`` Let me hope , '' thought I , `` or my heart will be as icy as the fountain , and the whole world as desolate as this snowy hill . ''
Most of the day was spent in preparing for the journey , which was to commence at four o'clock the next morning .
About an hour after supper , when all was in readiness , I descended from my chamber to the sitting-room , to take leave of the old clergyman and his family , with whom I had been an inmate .
A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry .
According to their invariable custom , so pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully , the family were sitting in the parlor , with no other light than what came from the hearth .
As the good clergyman 's scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy , the foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan , or ground bark , which would smoulder away , from morning till night , with a dull warmth and no flame .
This evening the heap of tan was newly put on , and surmounted with three sticks of red-oak , full of moisture , and a few pieces of dry pine , that had not yet kindled .
There was no light , except the little that came sullenly from two half-burned brands , without even glimmering on the andirons .
But I knew the position of the old minister 's arm-chair , and also where his wife sat , with her knitting-work , and how to avoid his two daughters , one a stout country lass , and the other a consumptive girl .
Groping through the gloom , I found my own place next to that of the son , a learned collegian , who had come home to keep school in the village during the winter vacation .
I noticed that there was less room than usual , to-night , between the collegian 's chair and mine .
As people are always taciturn in the dark , not a word was said for some time after my entrance .
Nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matron 's knitting-needles .
At times , the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam , which twinkled on the old man 's glasses , and hovered doubtfully round our circle , but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed it .
Were we not like ghosts ?
Dreamy as the scene was , might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people , who had known and loved each other here , would hold communion in eternity ?
We were aware of each other 's presence , not by sight , nor sound , nor touch , but by an inward consciousness .
Would it not be so among the dead ?
The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter , addressing a remark to some one in the circle , whom she called Rachel .
Her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word , but in a voice that made me start , and bend towards the spot whence it had proceeded .
Had I ever heard that sweet , low tone ?
If not , why did it rouse up so many old recollections , or mockeries of such , the shadows of things familiar , yet unknown , and fill my mind with confused images of her features who had spoken , though buried in the gloom of the parlor ?
Whom had my heart recognized , that it throbbed so ?
I listened , to catch her gentle breathing , and strove , by the intensity of my gaze , to picture forth a shape where none was visible .
Suddenly , the dry pine caught ; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow ; and where the darkness had been , there was she , -- the Vision of the Fountain !
A spirit of radiance only , she had vanished with the rainbow , and appeared again in the firelight , perhaps to flicker with the blaze , and be gone .
Yet , her cheek was rosy and life-like , and her features , in the bright warmth of the room , were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them .
She knew me !
The mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance , when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain , was laughing and dimpling there now .
One moment our glance mingled , -- the next , down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood , -- and darkness snatched away that Daughter of the Light , and gave her back to me no more !
Fair ladies , there is nothing more to tell .
Must the simple mystery be revealed , then , that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire , and had left home for a boarding-school , the morning after I arrived , and returned the day before my departure ?
If I transformed her to an angel , it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress .
Therein consists the essence of my story .
