"It is a faith sublime and sure, That ever round our head Are hovering on noiseless wing, The spirits of the dead."

It has been said that nothing is more difficult than to demonstrate a self-evident truth. To those who feel and know of this guardianship of friends, gone beyond, this affiliation of soul with soul, language is powerless to transmit the conviction. It must be felt and experienced, not reasoned into the mind, because it is a component of the soul, a legitimate portion of its life.

"I must go, and remain away a long time," said Dawn to her father, one morning, after they had just finished reading a letter from Florence.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because we are replete with the same kind of life; our minds are set to the same strain, and exhaust each other. I can be more to myself and others, if I go, you will enter mother's sphere more completely in my absence, and thus shall we both be refreshed and strengthened."

"I feel the truth of your words, and I am glad to know that your philosophy of life so fully accords with my own."

"We have a superabundance of one quality of life in our home, and a change is absolutely requisite for our mental as well as for our physical well-being. Absence from it, separation between us, a going out into new atmospheres, a social mingling with persons we do not daily come in contact with, will produce the most beneficial results. This is what every family at times needs. One great objection I have to our marriage system is, that as society is now constittuted, it allows no freedom to the individual. The two are so exclusively together that they lose knowledge of themselves. They suffer physically and intellectually. On the other hand, if more freedom existed, if their lives took a broader scope, each would know each more perfectly, and absorb from others that vigor which would develop a natural growth of their own. For my part, I can never submit to the existing rules of married life."

"The analogies of the natural world to human life are good, for the rocky shore symbolizes the highest power of the human soul, which is endurance rather than action. To most persons such characters seem vapid and sentimental, lacking force and tone, and generally unfitted for the enterprises of the world. And yet there are forces in man beside the grappling and hammering manifestations of the day. There is a greater mastery in control, than in the exercise of power. An angry man may evince more energy than he who keeps calm in the heat of provocation, but the latter is the man of most power. In the common circumstances of life we must act, and act lawfully; but to bear and suffer is alone the test of virtue, for there come hours of pain and mental anguish when all action is vain, when motion of limb and mind is powerless; then do we learn

"How sublime it is To suffer and be strong."

Then do we learn the great lesson that there is no quality more needed in our life than endurance. There is so much which occurs outside the circle of our own free will, accidents both mental and physical."

"And yet we feel there can be no accident."

"Nothing in the highest analysis which can be termed such, for all things are either in divine order, or under human responsibility, which latter power is too limited. What we term accidents are parts of, and belong to, the general plan, and when these occur, they serve to inspire us with endurance, which is no minor virtue-it is achievement-and bears its impress on the face. These thoughts are those of another, who has so well expressed them, that I have given them to you in his own language."

"I shall profit by your words, dear father. I shall need much of that heavenly quality which is so little appreciated, and apt to be mistaken for lack of force."

"May you grow in all the Christian graces, and be life and light to yourself and others, always remembering that your light is none the less for lighting another's torch."

"I shall go to-day to G—. Will you drive there, yourself alone?"

"I will."

An hour later they were on their way to a quiet village, a few miles from the Wyman's, where lived a friend of Dawn and her father, with whom she would stay a few days. The ride was delightful, and their communion so close and deep, that when they parted, it seemed as though they had never realized before, their need of each other. This feeling of tenderness brought them nearer in soul, if that were possible. It was like moonlight to the earth, mellowing and softening all lines and angles.

"Dearest father, did I ever love you before?" said Dawn, throwing herself on his breast, at parting.

"If you had not been working yourself so many years into my heart, you could not touch its very centre as you do now," he said, wiping the moisture from his eyes, and folding her more tenderly to himself. "Partings are but closest approaches, drawings of the heart-strings, which tell how strong the cords are which bind us to each other." The door of the friend's house was thrown open just at this point of his remarks, and a welcome face smiled on Dawn, who sprung from her seat beside her father, into the arms of her friend.

"Take good care of her, and send her home when you are weary," said her father, and turned his face homeward, but lingered long in spirit in the atmosphere of his child.

As he wound his way slowly up the long, shady avenue, that led to his home, another love came to his bosom, and transfused his being with a different, but equally uplifting life. A moment more, and he held that other love close to his heart, the woman whom he had chosen to brighten his days and share his happiness.

"It seems as though Dawn had returned with you," she said, as she received his loving caress.

"She is with me, and never so near as now. Heaven grant I may not make her an idol," he said, fervently, and then, almost regretting his words, he gazed tenderly into the eyes of his wife.

"You would find me no iconoclast," she said, "for I, too, love her with my whole heart, and am jealous at times of all that takes her from us. Yet she must go; day must go, for we need the change which night brings."

"True," answered Hugh, "no mortal could live continually in such concentrated happiness as I enjoy in the companionship of my child." He looked into the face of her who sat beside him, and saw in its every feature love, true love for him and his own, and he thanked God for the blessings of his life, laid his head on that true woman's breast, and wept tears of joy.

It was twilight when they rose from their speechless communion, and each felt how much more blessed is the silence of those we love, than the words of one whose being is not in harmony with our own.

It was a relief to Dawn to drop out of her intense sphere into the easy, contented, every-day life of her friend. They were not alike in temperament or thought. It was that difference which drew them together, and made it agreeable for them to associate at times. Such association brought rest to Dawn, and life to her friend. There was little or no soul-affiliation, consequently no exhaustion. It was the giving out of one quality, and the receiving of another entirely different, instead of the union of two of the same kind, hence there was not the reaction of nervous expenditure, which two ever feel, who perfectly blend, after a period of enjoyment. How wise is that provision which has thrown opposites into our life, that we may not be too rapidly consumed. For pure joy is to the soul what fire is to material objects, brilliant, but consuming.

"I am going to have some company to-night, charming people most of them. I think you will enjoy them, Dawn; at least I hope so," remarked Mrs. Austin, rocking leisurely in her sewing chair.

"No doubt I shall." She was not called upon to tell how she should enjoy them. Amused she might be, but enjoyment, as Dawn understood it, was out of the question with such a class as came that evening, and to each of whom Mrs. Austin seemed very proud to introduce her friend.

Among the guests was one who attracted the particular attention of Dawn, not from grace of person or mind, although he had them, but from some interior cause. He was tall, and rather elegant in appearance, a kind of external beauty which draws most women, and wins admirers in every circle.

At a glance Dawn perceived that although mentally brilliant, he had not the spiritual and moral compliment. By his side stood a woman of the world, whom Dawn at once knew to be his wife, and on her, she felt that involuntarily her look was steadily, almost immovably fixed.

She felt like testing the power of inner vision. It seemed to her that the woman was weighing heavily upon the man, holding him to earth rather than in any way uplifting him to heaven in his aspirations. She saw that the chain which bound them, was large, coarse, and flashed like gold. This led her to conclude that she married him for his wealth. She saw that the chain was wound around them both so tight that it was almost suffocating, and that the links that passed over the woman's heart were corroded and black.

At the instant that Dawn noticed this, some one approached the lady and asked her to seat herself at the piano. She consented, and after a great many excuses and unnecessary movements, began to play. A dark cloud took her place at the side of her husband when she left, which became greatly agitated as the music proceeded, and soon there issued from it a female form. That face Dawn had surely seen somewhere; she passed her hand over her brow and endeavored to recall the familiar features.

Like a flash it came; it was poor Margaret's face, white and glorified, but with a shade of sadness resting upon it.

Dawn's whole being quivered with emotion. She saw nothing now in the room but that form, and the earthly one beside it. The young man pressed his hand to his brow, as though in troubled thought, and moved from where he stood, shivering in every limb.

"Are you cold, Mr. Bowen?" some one inquired of him; the window was closed to shut out the chill air; but the chill which ran over his frame, no material substance could keep off, for it was caused by a spirit touching him.

"I declare, he looks as though he was frozen," said his wife, rising from the instrument amid the usual applause, and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear, "You look precisely as you did the day we met that hearse and one carriage. Come, it's a shame to be so abstracted." Then, addressing Mrs. Austin, she expressed a wish to be introduced to the gentleman who came in last, and the introduction followed.

Nearer and nearer she went. She could not do otherwise, until at last Dawn stood beside Clarence Bowen, the destroyer of Margaret's earthly happiness. The face in the cloud grew brighter; hope seemed to glow from its features, as she stood there and found her way to his troubled soul, with all the native instinct and delicacy of a true woman. She talked of life and its beauties, its opportunities to do good, and of uplifting the down-fallen; still the face shone on, till it seemed to her that every person present must have seen it, as she did. Such presences are no more discernable by the multitude, than are the beautiful principles of life, which lie every day about us, but which though not seen by them, are none the less visible to the few.

A new interest glowed in the young man's face; he felt that he had met a woman divested of the usual vanities of most of her sex. His being awoke to life under the new current of earnest words which flowed in his own narrow stream of life. The waters deepened-he felt that there was something better, higher to live for, as he gazed on the glowing face before him.

During all the conversation, his thoughts kept flowing back to the green grove, and the sweet, innocent face of Margaret. There was surely nothing in the face before him to recall that likeness, yet the bitter waters of memory kept surging over him, each word reflecting the image of the wronged girl.

The face which had all the time been visible to Dawn, slowly faded away, and when the last outline had passed from her sight, she ceased talking, and left him alone with his thoughts.

Alone with those bitter reflections, heaven only might help him, for the chains that bound him to earth were many and strong.

He could not resist the impulse to ask permission to call upon Dawn some day while she remained at Mrs. Austin's, which she readily granted, and then the party broke up, with a strange murmur of voices, and rustling of silks.

"Was it not delightful? I hope you had a good time, Dawn," was the first remark of Mrs. Austin, after the last of the company had left.

"I have enjoyed it very much," and she answered truthfully; but little did her friend surmise in what manner.

It was a relief to be in her room alone that night, and think over the thrilling experience of the evening. And this is one of the lights the world rejects, and calls by every other name but holy. A light which reveals the inner state, and shows the needs of the human soul. It may be rejected, but it cannot be destroyed. Man may turn his back upon it, yet it shines on, though he wilfully refuses to enjoy the blessing it imparts. The testimony of one who lives in a dark, narrow lane, that the sun does not exist, would not be considered of any value. Supposing one chooses to close his eyes, and declare that it is not morning; shall those whose eyes are open accept his assertion? Alas, how true it is that many are talking thus, with closed mental vision, from the rostrum and the pulpit. Let each see for himself, and take no man's word upon any subject any farther than that word gives hope and encouragement. Each must do his own thinking, and look upon every effort of another, to limit his range of thought or debar him from the investigation of every new presentation of truth, as an attempt to deprive him of his liberty.



CHAPTER XXVI.



When Clarence next met Dawn he was greatly dejected. She thought he appeared too old and wan for one of his years. The brow on which the light of hope and life should repose, was indeed wrinkled, and furrowed with unrest because the spirit was ill at ease. There was a claim upon him, a voice calling for retribution, which through the very law of life, aside from personal wrong, would not let him rest; and was only in the presence of Dawn that he experienced anything like repose. His wife and friends taunted him daily upon his depression, because they were far from his soul, and could not comprehend the agony which was working therein. Many thus live only on the surface of life, and see only results. What a righting of affairs will come when all are able to see the soul's internal; when darkness shall be made light. That time is rapidly approaching.

Dawn sat beside him, the same grieved but saintly face shone out, in the atmosphere.

"I have heard, Miss Wyman, that you sometimes have interior sight-that you can see conditions of the mind, and the cause of its depressions. May I ask you if you can at present, penetrate my state, and ascertain the cause of this unrest?"

She was silent for a moment. The workings of her own mind were visible on her features. She scarce knew how to break the truth to him, but soon lighting up she said:

"I think I have seen at least one cause of your unrest. There is a spirit presence now in this room, a young and lovely girl whom you have at some time neglected." She did not say "wronged."

He started to his feet.

"The face, Miss Wyman; can you describe her appearance?" his words and manner indicating his interest, if not belief, in her power.

"She has light blue eyes, heaven blue, and brown hair. She is a little taller then myself, has a very fair complexion, and she holds a wreath of oak leaves in front of you."

Clarence turned deadly pale.

"I think she must have been once dear to you, by the look of sweet forgiveness which she gives you."

He groaned aloud.

"Now she holds in her arms a child-a bright-eyed boy, which has your look upon its face."

He started with a defiant look, but this changed in an instant to one of grief, and he leaned his head upon his hands and wept.

Slowly the fair face faded away; then Dawn knew all, and knowing all, how great a comforter did she become to him! Angels smile on and mingle in such scenes; mortals see but the surface, and wonder why they thus mingle, with the usual earthly questioning, whether it is for any good that the two thus come together.

The long pent-up grief passed away, in a measure, and Clarence felt as though in the presence of an angel, so sweet and soothing were the words of promise, and tender rebuke which came from the lips of Dawn and flowed to his heart, strengthening his purpose to become a better man.

"Can he who fully repents be wholly forgiven," he asked, in a tone of deepest want.

"God's mercies are for such and his forgiveness is free, full, and eternal. It does not flow all at once: it must be obtained by long-suffering and earnest asking, that we may know its value, and how precious is the gift."

"Do you think if I were to go beyond, where dwells that one I have wronged, I could be with her and walk by her side?"

"If your repentance was pure and complete. You would be where your soul was attracted."

"Do spirits feel the change in our states? If we are sorry for our misdeeds, can they see that we are?"

"Their mission to earth as helps and guardians to mortals would be of little use if they could not. They rise and fall with us. They administer to us, and learn of us. The worlds are like warp and woof. We stay or go where our labor is, wherever the soul may be which has claim upon us."

"This must be sight then, real vision, for such a person as you have described I once loved and wronged. But the hour is late, I must go, yet I hope you will permit me to call upon you once more. Can I have your promise to see me again, before you leave the place?"

"If I remain I shall be most happy to see you. Remember that all your efforts to do right will relieve and elevate this friend who is around you, who cannot leave you, until her mind has become assimilated with yours, and the balance of your nature is restored by the infusing of her life into yours. If she is relieved by your act, rest will follow; if not, the opposite. This is a law of nature, and cannot be set aside, no more than two on the earth living disharmonized and misunderstood, can find rest away from, or out of, each other.'

"I deeply thank you," he said, "for your kind words. May all happiness be yours forever." And then they parted, not the same as when they met, but linked together by the chain of sympathy and common needs.

Clarence heard not the words of his wife that night as he entered his home, who after a while grew weary of his absent replies, and found consolation in sleep. But to him sleep was not thought of. All night he laid awake, his being transfused with a new current of thought, and his life going out and soaring upward into a higher existence. The warp of a new garment was set in the loom. What hand would shape and weave the woof?

When day broke over the hills another morning burst on his senses, and Clarence Bowen, of the gay world, was not the same as before, but a man of high resolves and noble purposes, trying to live a better life.

Slowly his higher nature unfolded. Very slowly came the truths to his mind, as Dawn presented them with all the vigor and freshness of her nature. She told him the story of Margaret, of her death and burial, and of her father; and while he listened with tear-dimmed eyes, his soul became white with repentance. As Dawn spoke, the vision came and went,—each time with the countenance more at rest. It was an experience such as but few have; only those who seen beyond, and know that mortals return to rectify errors after their decease.

There could be no rest for either, until a reconciliation was effected. Happy he who can stand between the two worlds and transmit the most earnest wishes of the unseen, to those of earth. The mission, though fraught with many sorrows, is divine and soul-uplifting to the subject. But who can know these truths save one who has experiened them? The human soul has little power of imparting to another its deepest feelings. We may speak, but who will believe, or sense our experiences? An ancient writer says: "There are many kinds of voices in the world, but none of them without signification. Therefore, if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian, and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me."

"When you tell me of these things I believe; they are real to me," said Clarence, "but if I read them, or hear them related as the experience of others, they are dull and meaningless; why is this?"

"I suppose it is because you so feel my life and assurance of them, that in my atmosphere they become real and tangible to you."

"I think it must be so. I may yet find strength enough to walk alone."

"You will walk with her who comes to mingle her happiness with yours, and to help bear your crosses."

"Is it wrong to wish to die?"

"It is better, I think, to desire to live here our appointed time, and ultimate the purpose of our earthly existence."

"But I can never be happy here, for there are none who understand me."

"Seek to understand yourself, and that will draw others to you. It matters but little whether we are understood in this world, when we think of the long eternity before us. There is danger of becoming morbid on that point. We lose time and ground in many such meditations. Our gaze becomes too much inward, and we lose sight of life's grand panorama while thus closed in. We can see ourselves most clearly in others; our weakness and our strength. We need to go out, more than to look within. Do you not in conversing with me feel yourself more, than you do when alone?"

"I do. Another essence, or quality of life mingling with our own gives us our own more perfectly. Will all this power go with us to the other world, or do we leave much behind?"

"Nothing but the husk-the dust is left here. Whatever is, shall be. Should you or I pass on, to-day, we should still preserve our individuality of thought and being."

"And our loves will unfold there, and we be free, think you, to associate with whom we love?"

"I have no doubt of it in my own mind, but can scarce expect another to feel the conviction as I do. We shall be better understood there. Here we have inharmonious natures of our own and others to contend with. These are given to us and are brought about us without any ability in ourselves to accept or reject. Our surroundings are not always what we would wish them, and few find rest or harmony of soul while here. And yet all this is necessary for proper unfoldment and development, else it would not be. Few weary pilgrims reach in this life the many mansions prepared for the soul; few find their fullness of soul-enjoyment. I have seen some of these weary ones as they entered the other world and were led to places of rest. As they caught a single glimpse of the peace and rest awaiting them, their faces glowed with the light of a divine transfiguration; yet they knew that the bliss they had been permitted to look upon, and to hope for, could be theirs only as they were developed into a state of perfect appreciation of it. Even so the person who enters the most fully and understandingly into our own feelings, grasps and holds the most of us. I am yours and you are mine just so far as we can fathom and comprehend each other."

"I had never thought of that before. How little do they who claim us as their own, know of the existence of this law; and yet the more I consider it, the more do I see its beauty, its truth, and the harmony of all its parts."

Dawn was greatly pleased in seeing how readily he recognized her position, and continued:

"The relation which such claimants bear to us is one purely external in its nature, and oft-times painful. It is a kind of property ownership which ought to be banished from social life. It should be cast out and have no place nor lot with us, for those higher and divine principles cannot dwell with us until these things are regarded as of the past, and now worthless."

"But might not the new flow in naturally, and displace the old?"

"That is partly true, but when content with our condition we feel the need of no other. This is one reason why to many, the blessings in store for them are seemingly so long in coming. The man who is struggling with adversity, and sees nothing but darkness and want surrounding him, fondly imagines that in the possession of abundance he would find rest and peace. And yet he could never be blest while in that condition of feeling, though all wealth were his. But having passed through, and out of, this condition, and learned that the exertion induced by privation was the best possible means of his growth, then, wealth might come to him and be a blessing and a power. Blessings will come to us when we are prepared by culture or discipline to rightly employ them for our own good and the good of others."

"Your thoughts have made me truly blest. You have withdrawn the dark veil which has hung over me so long. I must surely call this a blessing."

"And the darkness was the same, for it has led you to appreciate the light."

He took her hand at parting, and pressed it with the warmth of generous gratitude, bade her adieu and went out into the darkness of the evening, but with rays of the morning of life shining in his soul.



CHAPTER XXVII.



"Dawn! Dawn! where are you?" called Mrs. Austin from the library after Mr. Bowen had left. "I'm glad that stupid fellow has gone," she continued, "for we want you to sing for us."

How could she sing? The sentiment which would suit her mood would not surely be fitted to those who would listen; but forcing her real state aside, she played and sung several lively songs.

"Delightful!" exclaimed her friend, "we mean to have more of your company now, and keep such stupid people as Clarence Bowen away, he is so changed; he used to be very gay and lively; what do you find in him, Dawn?"

"A need; a great soul need. He wants comforting."

"What, is he sad? He ought to be the merriest, happiest fellow alive. He has enough of this world's goods, and a most brilliant woman for a wife."

"These alone cannot give happiness. True, lasting happiness is made up of many little things on which the world places but little value. He has much to make him thoughtful and earnest, and very little to make him gay."

"You are so unlike everybody else, Dawn. Now I like life; real, hearty, earnest life. I don't care a straw for hidden causes. I want what's on the surface. I think we were put here to enjoy ourselves and make each other happy."

"So do I; but what you call 'happiness,' might to some, be mere momentary excitement, mere transient pleasure. To me, the word happiness means something deeper; a current, which holds all the ripples of life in its deep channel."

"Well, if happiness is the deep undercurrent, as you say, I don't want it. I want the ripples, the foam, and the sparkle. So let us go to bed and rest, and to-morrow ride over the hills on horseback. I'll take Arrow, he's fiery, and you may take Jessie. Will you? You need some roses on your cheek." And the joyous-hearted woman kissed the pale face of her friend till the flush came on her cheeks and brow.

"There; now you look like life; you seemed a moment since as still and white as snow!"

"Your warm nature has surely changed the condition of things, for I feel more like riding just now than sleeping."

"That's good. Suppose we have a moonlight race?"

"I protest against any such proceeding, being the lord and master of this manor," said her husband, looking up from his book, in which they supposed he was too deeply engaged to hear their conversation.

Reader, don't trust a gentleman who has his eyes on the page of a volume when two ladies are conversing.

"Then I suppose there's nothing left for us but to go to bed."

"Yes, a something else," said her husband.

"What?"

"Go to sleep."

"Stupid! I suppose you think you have made a brilliant speech."

"On the contrary I think it the reverse. I never waste scintillations of genius on unappreciative auditors."

"Edward Austin! you deserve to be banished a week from ladies' society. Come Dawn, let us retire."

It was in this pleasant, light vein of thought that Dawn recovered her mental poise, and she sank into a sweet and profound slumber, which otherwise would not have come to her. Thus do we range from one sphere to another, and learn, though slowly, that all states are legitimate and necessary, the one to the other. The parts of life contribute to the perfection of the whole. Each object has its own peculiar office, as it has its own form. The tulip delights with its beauty, the carnation with its perfume, the unseemly wormwood displeases both taste and smell, yet in medicinal value is superior to both. So each temperament, each character, has its good and bad. The one has inclinations of which the other is incapable.

"This is a world of hints, out of which each soul seizes what it needs." So from other lives we draw and appropriate continually into our own, and we need the manifestations of life to make us harmonious. Each person draws something from us that none other can, and imparts out of its special quality that which we cannot receive from any other. We need at times to surrender our will, to merge ourselves into another sphere, and loose the tension of our own action; this surrender being to the mind what sleep is to the brain.

The whole of life does not flow through any one channel; we drink from many streams. "A ship ought not to be held by one anchor, nor life by a single hope." Slowly we learn life's compliments, and the value of its component parts. Many threads make up the web, and many shades the design. As we advance in experiences, we feel that we could not have afforded to have lost one shade, however dark it may have been. Time, the silent weaver, sits by the loom, seeing neither the light nor shade, but only the great design which grows under his hand in the immortal web.

The morning was clear and lovely. Mrs. Austin and Dawn rode over the hills, their spirits rising at every step, under the exhilarating exercise. A fresh breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and made the whole air sweet and vital. Birds carolled their songs, and made the woods vocal with praise. Nature seemed set to a jubilant key; while fresh inspiration flowed into the heart of man as he gazed on the scene so redolent with life and beauty.

"You are as radiant as the day," said Mrs. Austin, drawing in Arrow a little, and coming to the side of Dawn.

"Thank you for your compliment, but it's more the reflection of the outer world, than a manifestation of myself. One cannot but be bright on such a morning."

"I cannot hold Arrow in longer, or I might argue on that point." In a moment she was out of sight, round the bend of the road.

"She does me good every moment. I sometimes wish I did not see the conditions of life, and its states as I do. I must keep on the surface a little more,—so run along Jessie," said Dawn, giving the gentle animal a little touch of the whip that caused her to canter away briskly and catch up with Arrow. Yet it was but for an instant, for Arrow bounded off as he heard the approach, and horse and rider were soon as far in the distance as before.

At the end of the long road Mrs. Austin halted, and reined Arrow under a tree to wait for her friend.

"You are quite a stranger," said Dawn, coming up at a slow pace. "I've been taking time to enjoy the scenery."

"So I perceive. I thought you had dismounted and was sketching, or writing a sonnet to the woods."

"It were most likely to have been the latter, as I never sketch anything but human character."

"Then tell me what I am like. Sketch me as I am."

"You are unlike every one else," said Dawn, in an absent manner.

"That's a diversion. Come to the point, and define me. I'm a riddle, I know."

"If you have got thus far, you can analyze yourself. It's a good beginning to know what you are."

"But I cannot unriddle myself. I have, under my rippling surface, a few deep thoughts, and good ones, and they make me speak and act better, sometimes. I am not all foam, Dawn."

"I never supposed you were. There is a depth in you that you have never fathomed, because your life has been gay, and you have never needed the truths which lie deep, and out of sight."

"But I'd rather go up than down; much rather."

"Depth is height, and height is depth."

"So it is. I never thought of that before. Dawn, you could make a woman of me. Edward does not call me into my better self as you do. Why is it?"

"I suppose because he does not need that manifestation of your being. Your lives are both set to sweetly flowing music. You have never felt the sting of want and suffering, either mental or physical, nor witnessed it to any great extent in others."

"Why are we allowed to sit in the sunshine, then, if there is so much sorrow in the world?"

"You are saved for some work. When the worn laborers now in the field can do no more, perhaps you will be called forth."

"O, Dawn, your words thrill me. Then we may not always be as happy as now?" and her glance seemed to turn inward on her joyous heart.

"You may be far happier, but not so full of life's pleasures."

"Yes; I remember the deep, strong current, and the ripples. Let us go on, Dawn. I feel, I don't know how, but strange. Shall we start?"

"Certainly; I wait your move. Come, Jessie, show me another phase of your nature. I have seen how gentle you are; now go."

At the word, the creature seemed to fly through the air, so swiftly did she leap over the ground, and Arrow was left behind.

At noon they stopped at a house on the mountain side, the home of an acquaintance of Mrs. Austin's, to refresh themselves and their horses.

"I have brought you to some strange people," said Mrs. Austin, as they alighted, and a boy came and led their horses to the stable.

"Strange; in what way?"

"O; they believe in all sorts of supernatural things-in the doctrine of transmigration, second-sight, and every other impossible and improbable thing."

"I am delighted. I shall be most happy to see them."

"Because you yourself are so much inclined that way?"

"No. I should be more curious to see them if I were not interested in the things you have mentioned. But now I shall meet kindred souls, and in those I always find delight."

"I've half a mind to take you home without even an introduction, for your impudence; as though I was not a 'kindred soul.'"

"It's too late, now, for here comes a lady and gentleman to welcome you."

"Miss Bernard, my friend Miss Wyman, Mr. Bernard."

Dawn took their proffered hands which seemed to thrill with a welcome, and they led the way to a large, old-fashioned parlor. The house was one of those delightful land-marks of the past generation, which we sometimes see. It stood on a high hill, or rather on a mountain shelf, shaded by lofty trees which seemed like sentinels stationed about to protect it from all intrusion. No innovations of modern improvement had marred the general keeping of the grounds and buildings, for any change would have been an injury to the general harmony of the whole. A large, clean lawn sloped to a woody edge in front, and in the rear of the dwelling were clusters of pines and oaks.

Miss Bernard could not be described in a book, nor sensed in a single interview, yet we must lay before the reader an outline to be filled by the imagination. She was a blending of all the forces, mental, moral, and spiritual. Her face was full of thought, without the sharp, defined lines, so common to most women of a nervous temperament. It impressed you at once with vigor and power; chastened by a deep, spiritual light, which shone over it like that of the declining sun upon a landscape. It seemed to burst from within, not having the appearance of proceeding from dross burning away, but like a radiance native to the soul, a part and quality of it, not an ignition which comes from friction and war within.

Basil, her brother, whose name indicated his nature, made every one feel as though transported to a loftier atmosphere. He seemed to belong among the stars. Dawn felt at home at once in his presence, which was a mystery to her friend, to whom he seemed intangible and distant. She had never seen upon the face of Dawn such rapt admiration as she saw there, when Basil conversed.

The conversation changed from external to inner subjects, just as the bell rung for dinner. At the table there were no strangers, and to Dawn it seemed as though she had always known them, and many times before, occupied the same place in their midst. Thus do those who are harmonious in spirit affiliate, regardless of material conditions.

A vase of elegant flowers decked the table, also a basket of blossoms, unarranged, which, at dessert, were placed on the plates of the guests.

A light shone from Basil's eyes, which did not escape Mrs. Austin's notice, as he placed a scarlet lily upon her plate.

"The wand-like lily which lifted up, As a Maenad, its radiant-colored cup, Till the fiery star, which is in its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky."

While these lines of Whittier's ran through her mind:

"I bring no gift of passion, I breathe no tone of love, But the freshness and the purity Of a feeling far above. I love to turn to thee, fair girl, As one within whose heart Earth has no stain of vanity, And fickleness no part."

Then she watched him with deeper interest as he placed a spray of balm beside the lily.

"Balm that never ceases uttering sweets, Goes decking the green earth with drapery."

"I wonder what he will give me," she said to herself, almost impatiently, yet fearing the offering might not be complimentary, for she well knew that Basil Bernard was always truthful. He held already in his hand a rose, blooming and fresh as morning, which he put upon her plate, and beside it a spray of yellow jessamine. Grace and elegance-while the beautiful Mundi rose spoke its own language-"you are merry."

"Blushing rose! Blown in the morning-thou shalt fade ere noon: What boots a life that in such haste forsakes thee? Thou 'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon, And passing proud a little color makes thee."

And now came the most interesting point, to see what flowers he would place upon his sister's plate.

First, a handful of violets. "Faithfulness," thought Dawn, "he is right thus far." And then, as though his thoughts rose with the sentiment, he laid snowballs gently around them, while these words flashed upon her mind:

"Should sorrow o'er thy brow Its darkened shadow fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure, at its birth, Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth— There's rest for thee in heaven. "If ever life should seem To thee a toilsome way, And gladness cease to beam Upon its clouded day; If, like the weary dove, O'er shoreless ocean driven, Raise thou thine eyes above— There's rest for thee in heaven."

"And now we will each make a contribution to Basil" said his sister, smiling on him in a manner which told how dear he was to her.

She passed the basket to Dawn, who blushed and trembled at first, not with fear, but pleasure.

"The offering," said his sister, "is to be an expression of the sentiments, which, in the opinion of each of us, are most in keeping with his character."

Dawn reached forth, and drew, without hesitation, a cluster of verbenas, and one white water-lily.

"Sensibility and purity of heart. She has read him aright," thought Miss Bernard.

"Gentle as an angel's ministry The guiding hand of love should be, Which seeks again those chords to bind Which human woe hath rent apart."

"She has seen my brother's very heart, his most noble self," she repeated to herself, as she passed the basket to Mrs. Austin, who plucked a Clyconthas, and laid it on his plate, with a blossom of Iris.

"Benevolence," said Dawn, and to her mind these beautiful words were suggested;

"Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief, Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief; Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold? 'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfume throughout the ambient air. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know. Shalt bless the earth while in the world above; The good began by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow; The seed that in these few and fleeting hours Thy hand unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers."

But one more offering, and that from his sister. She drew the bay leaf, of which the wreath to adorn the conqueror and the poet is made, and, while the eyes of the two women rested on her, drew forth also the pale, but sweet-scented mountain pink, signifying aspiration, beautifully expressed by Percival in these lines:

"The world may scorn me, if they choose-I care But little for their scoffings. I may sink For moments; but I rise again, nor shrink From doing what the faithful heart inspires. I will not falter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink, At what high-mounted wealth or power desires; I have a loftier aim, to which my soul aspires."

"We regret that we must leave, now," said Mrs. Austin to her friend, after they had returned to the drawing-room and conversed awhile.

"We would gladly detain you longer, but knowing you have a long drive, we cannot conscientiously do so," said Miss Bernard; "but may we not hope to see you both, again?"

"Not unless you return our visit; we cannot take another long drive right away, having so many ways to move, and so little time to spare. But come and see us whenever you can."

"Thank you," replied Miss Bernard, and Basil bowed, while his eyes rested on Dawn.

"We should both be happy to see you again, Miss Wyman," he said, taking her hand, and the horses having been brought to the door, he helped her into the saddle first, and then Mrs. Austin.

They bounded away, and were soon far from the hospitable home, discussing, as they rode side by side, the merits and beauties of its occupants.

"I did not tell you Miss Bernard's name. I think her brother did not mention it while we were there; now what do you think it can be?"

"I do not know; perhaps Margaret-a pearl. No, not that; maybe, Agathe, which signifies good; and yet I do not feel I have it yet."

"No; guess again."

"I thought once while there, it might be Beatrice, for she seems like one who blesses."

"You are right. That is her name, and most nobly does she illustrate its signification."

"I am glad, for I hoped it was. How strange their names should so suit their natures," said Dawn, musingly.

"Not if you knew them and their ancestry. They are of German descent, and believe in all sorts of traditions, and, as I have said before, supernatural things. They live almost wholly in sentiment, and are little known save by a very few. I like them, yet I cannot tell why. When in their presence I feel a sort of transcendental charm, a something intangible, but restful to my soul. It's only with you and them, Dawn, that I ever feel thus, and that is why I brought you together."

"I can never thank you enough, but I wish to know them better."

"You shall. Did I not see how they felt your sphere, as you 'impressionists' say."

"I hope they felt my desire for a better life, for it is a great rest to be comprehended. It is as though some one took us by the hand, and led us over the hard places of life."

"I wish I could feel and live as you do, Dawn. You seem to have something so much deeper and richer in your life, than I have in mine-but, I suppose you would say, if I wanted deeper thoughts, I should search and find them."

"I should, most certainly; you have anticipated my answer. We have what we aspire to—what we feel the need of."

"We are getting too earnest, it makes me feel almost sad. Come, Arrow, let me see you speed over that shady road;" and away he flew at the sound of his name, leaving Dawn and Jessie, who seemed in no mood just then for galloping, far behind.

It was almost twilight when they reached home together, Mrs. Austin having checked her horse's speed, for her friend to come up with her. They had passed a most delightful day, and cosily seated in their parlor, we will leave them talking as the twilight deepens around, and go to the home of Basil and sister, who are conversing upon the day's events.

"It seems as though somewhere, in this or another existence, I had seen that face and form," said Basil to his sister.

"She is certainly very lovely, wherever you may have met her. She may have been a dove, brother, and rested on your shoulder. I do not know but that we should hesitate before we condemn the belief in a transmigration of spirits, souls, and forces, when nature seems to somewhat imply its truth in her kingdom?"

"Spirit cannot, in its countless transmigrations, be limited to the little space which we call earth. The life of the universe is the activity of its ever-living forces and existences, and their eternal striving to separate or to unite.

"The belief in the transmigration of souls is of high antiquity, and is worthy of more than a passing thought. A writer has said: 'Being itself does not change, but only its relations. Mind and soul move in other connections, according to divine ordinances. The strength or weakness of the will, which the mind is conscious of, in itself, by a natural necessity creates a distinction between the elevation or the degradation of self. That is its heaven-this is its hell. There is an infinite progress of spirit towards perfection in the Infinite, as the solar systems with their planets wheel through the realm of the immeasurable. All eternal activity! New union to be going on of spirits and souls with new powers, which become their serviceable instruments of contact with the All of things-this is transmigration of souls. Any other kind of continued duration and continued action is inconceivable to us. Whether upon earth, or in other worlds, is a matter of indifference.' But one spirit sees these things more clearly than another."

Basil stopped, and gazed long into the dim twilight, that light so fitted for communion; and as he gazed he felt his mind going out from his home, towards the being who had so touched his soul-thoughts. Was it his counterpart, or second-self, that made him feel that evening as though he had never known himself? What new quality had so blended with his own, in that brief space of time, as to quicken all his spiritual and intellectual perceptions? Would they meet again? and when and where? were the concluding interrogatories as he came back from his reverie, his thoughts flowing again into audible language.

"You seem freshened, brother," said Beatrice, perceiving that he lacked words for the full expression of his intense feelings.

"It's the power of a new mind. I am quickened in spirit."

"I see you are; and is it not wonderful how much a person whom we do not daily meet can inspire us? What an impetus such an one brings to us, even though but a few words may be spoken. Its fresh magnetic life mingles with our own, and tinctures our inspirations and aspirations with a new fervor.

"True; how much we have to learn regarding social intercourse. We have in society so little spontaniety, that it will take many genial natures like that of Miss Wyman to melt the frost away."

She saw that he was pleased with Dawn, and felt glad. It was almost a relief to feel the strong tension of his love for her relax a little. It is not often that sisters have thus to complain, but Basil Bernard knew what love was, and how to enfold his object in an atmosphere of delight. It was protective and uplifting, refining and broadening, to all who felt it.

There are some natures like that of an infant, ever asking for love, and protecting arms. Such need to be carried on one's bosom, and nestled, through their whole life. There are maternally protecting arms that can bear them thus, and in the sphere of their life and love their souls would rest. There are natures that will ever be as children, and also those who can meet their wants.

Such clinging lives should be all infancy; they should be cared for, until their souls are strong enough to stand alone.

Why is there so much that is fragmentary and unlinked? Why is the vine left to trail, when the strong oak, with its giant trunk, is standing bare? It's all in parts, disjointed, broken, as though some world of glory had been torn asunder, and its portions scattered here and there.

There is completeness somewhere-in the land beyond-where the sighs, the tears, the passionate longings, the hopes and fears will be all adjusted, and our souls rest in celestial harmony.

We cannot question but that it will be well with us there, if we have striven for the good, our souls conceived of, here. If, with good purpose and intent, we have out-wrought the hints and suggestions which have been given us of life, we must find growing states of rest, sometime, to repletion. It will not be all peace there; for the two worlds are interblended, and shadow into each other. There is an interplay of life and emotion forever, and to those who sense it, a joy too deep to be portrayed by human words; a truth which helps us to bear the sorrows of this life serenely, and more fully appreciate its joys.



CHAPTER XXVIII.



Basil and his sister sat longer that summer evening than was their wont. There was a deeper intoning of sentiment, a closer blending of thought, or rather, their individual states had been more clearly defined by the day's incidents.

They were of those rare types of mind which know just how far they can be together, and not detract from each other; just when the mental and spiritual assimilation was becoming attenuated, and each needed solitude. Thus they were constantly coming each to the other, and consequently drew from exhaustless fountains of intellectual and physical strength.

Life is replete with harmonies ready to inflow, if we are but receptive and delicate enough to receive and appropriate them. Blest are they who recognize life's indications, its index-fingers which are pointing each hour to some new experience, which will deepen and expand our lives.

Generally there is great danger of two persons settling into themselves, as these two seemed to have done, but Basil and Beatrice were so catholic they could afford it, in fact they needed just the close companionship which they held. The brother, with his colossal spirit, lofty and original, moving forward through life with that slow majesty which indicates the wholeness of the individual, unlike the airy advance of natures which rush with but one faculty quickened, and mistake speed for greatness, supplied the sister with that manly, noble quality, which must ever exist in the real or ideal of every woman. No wonder her warm, beneficent nature expanded daily, until her heart seemed a garden full of flowers of love and gratitude.

Did life at times seem dim and hazy, and the mind full of a thousand doubts, he could dispel the cloud, wrench the truth from its old combinations, and present it to her in striking contrast with its opposite error.

No wonder that new purposes and aspirations were born every hour in that woman's heart, impregnated by his manliness of quality. Yet each drew through the subtle texture of soul a different hue of life, as in a bed of flowers, from the same sunlight, one draws crimson, another azure, as though conscious of the harmony of complement and difference.

"I feel a rich, deep vein of thought to-night," said Beatrice, "as though I could write a poem or a book, so vivid are my thoughts."

"Your life has been a poem, full of sweetly blended words. You have lived yours out, while others have written theirs."

"But there is such power in books, Basil."

"I know it well. 'Some books are drenched sands on which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, like a wrecked argosy.' And some are sweet and full of passion-tones, and you feel on every leaf that you are turning, as though their heart-beats were going into yours; that they were dying that you might have life. Books are indeed great, but lives are greater; lives that are full of earnest purpose, and that fail not, even though the tide beats strong about them and the heavens hang thick and dark with clouds. The greatest poems are true lives, now surging with grief and passion, now pulsing with joy-notes, thrilling on each page of life. Some books, as well as persons, make us feel as though we stood in the presence of a king, while some give us tears. Some books and some beings dome us like a sky. Sister, you are the dome which ever overarches my life,—if day, with its azure and ermine clouds; if night, with its stars. Nay, do not write a book, but breathe and live your life out each day."

"Yet I know that you, Basil, could write one, and make it full and perfect."

"I could make one full of words, if not of thought; but come, the night is passing, we shall scarce have an hour's rest before sunrise."

"Indeed, I think we are in a fair way to see its early brightness."

To their dreams and life we will leave them awhile, knowing that to such hearts will ever come peace, whether sleeping or waking.

Past midnight, that silent hour when the earth is peopled with other forms. It is the hour for the brain to receive the most subtle influences, whether sleeping or waking.

Some kinds of sleep bring us brighter states than day gives us. They are awakenings, in which the understanding, instead of being dethroned, acquires a power and vivacity beyond what it possesses when the external form is awake and active. The soul seems emancipated from earthly trammels. The ruling thought of a man's life is not unlikely to shape itself into dreams, the constant thought of the day may encroach on the quiet of the night. Thus Columbus dreamed that a voice said unto him, "God will give thee the keys of the gates of the ocean." So any earnest longing, resting on our minds when we composed ourselves to sleep, may pass over into our sleeping consciousness, and be reproduced, perhaps in some happier mood.

Modern writers on the phenomena of sleep, usually concur in the assertion that man's sleeping thoughts are meaningless, and that dreams are, therefore, untrustworthy. Such was not the opinion of our ancestors. They attached great importance to dreams and their interpretations. They had resort to them for guidance in cases of difficulty, or great calamity. We do not claim for all dreams, a divine or reliable character, but that some are to be trusted, every individual of any experience can testify. Plato assumes that all dreams might be trusted, if men would only bring their bodies into such a state, before going to sleep, as to leave nothing that might occasion error or perturbation in their dreams.

A young lady, a native of Ross-shire, in Scotland, who was devotedly attached to an officer, with Sir John Moore in the Spanish war, became alarmed at the constant danger to which her lover was exposed, until she pined, and fell into ill health. Finally, one night in a dream, she saw him pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains of the bed, and with a mild look, told her he had been slain in battle, bidding her, at the same time, to be comforted, and not take his death to heart.

The consequence of the dream was fatal to the poor girl, who died a few days afterward, desiring her parents to note down the date of her dream, which she was confident would be confirmed. It was so. The news shortly after reached England that the officer had fallen at the battle of Corunna, on the very day in the night of which his betrothed had beheld the vision.

Another, a lady residing in Rome, dreamed that her mother, who had been several years dead, appeared to her, gave her a lock of hair, and said, "Be especially careful of this lock of hair, my child, for it is your father's, and the angels will call him away from you to-morrow."

The effect of the dream on her mind was such, that, when she awoke, she experienced the greatest alarm, and caused a telegraphic notice to be instantly dispatched to England, were her father was, to inquire after his health. No immediate reply was received; but, when it did come, it was to the effect that her father had died that morning at nine o'clock. She afterwards learned, that, two days before his death, he had caused to be cut off, a lock of his hair, and handed it to one of his daughters, who was attending on him, telling her it was for her sister in Rome.

Well authenticated cases might be multiplied till they filled volumes; but the two we have cited, suffice to prove that in sleeping, as well as in waking hours, our minds may receive impressions of truth, or, that the spirit goes out to other scenes, and there takes cognizance of events and conditions.

Dawn slept on; her beautiful white face was still and upturned, as though gazing into the heavens. The excitement of the day had gone, and the look of keen pleasure on her features was changed to one of intensest emotion, for she was away, her spirit beside one whose life seemed almost ebbing out of this state of existence. She saw his pale features half hidden in the snowy pillows, the deep, soft eyes looking as though in search of one they loved; and then she heard him call her name, in tones touching and tender. She wept, and awoke. The sun was shining brightly through the window. She arose, and dressed for her departure, and, to the surprise of her friend, announced her intention of leaving that morning for home.

"You are no more to be depended on than the rest of your sex, Miss Wyman," remarked Mr. Austin, who really enjoyed having her with them.

She was in no mood to reply in the same spirit, but said quietly:

"I have concluded not to tire you out completely this time, for I want to come again."

"I think your going must be the result of some very hasty conclusion, Dawn. I had no intimation of it last evening. Really, unless you are ill, you are quite unfair to leave us so soon." Mrs. Austin having made this remark, glanced for the first time at Dawn's white face. What had come over her? Was it Dawn who sat there so still and white? "Are you ill?" she asked, the tremor of her voice betraying her deep solicitude for the welfare of her visitor.

"No; but anxious. I must go to-day, however, or I shall be sick, and on your hands."

"I'd a deal rather you should be on my hands, than weighing on my heart, as you are now," and Mrs. Austin expressed the hope, after her husband had left, that she would confide to her the cause of her departure and sudden appearance of illness.

"I have had an unpleasant dream," said Dawn, when they were alone, feeling that some explanation was due her friend, "and I must go home."

"A dream! O, fie, I never mind them. Why, I once had a most frightful one about Ned. He was away on a journey, and I dreamt that the boat caught fire, and every one on board was lost. I even went so far as too see a messenger coming to tell me of the disaster."

"But had not your mind been agitated through the day?"

"Why, I had read of some dreadful disasters, to be sure, and then I had retired at a late hour, after getting my mind wrought up about the liabilities of danger, which, of course, accounted for it-but was your dream about your father?"

"No."

"Why must you go? Do you think any one is in danger? I think it was the result of the long ride, don't you?

"I do not. My dream was purely impressional, and outside of the effect of daily incidents. Yes, I must go, Fannie, and right away."

"In that case I shall ride home with you," and she rang for the man to harness the horse.

Each busy with her own thoughts they rode in silence for a long distance, a silence which was only broken by Dawn's exclamation of pleasure, as they came in sight of her home.

The next day she sat beside the bed of Ralph, whose snow-white face and attenuated form, showed how fast he was passing away.

He gazed long and tenderly into her face, as she sat there, their souls holding their last earthly communion. His spirit was all aglow with life, and trust, while the shadow of separation rested on her, and dimmed her faith and vision.

"But for a little while, Dawn, and then we shall meet again; perhaps, to be united."

How the words entered her heart, for now, under the cloud, she felt, O how keenly, that her state had hastened him home. His was the vine-like nature that must cling to another, or die. It was all dark to her then, and added to the pang of separation, was the thought of her cold indifference. He, all gentleness and love, lie in rays of light; all her vision and life had gone into him to help him over the river.

"And you do not dread to go, Ralph?" she said, her voice choking with emotion.

"Fear? I only long to do so; to be there, where all is peace and rest;" and the rapt, upturned gaze, confirmed his words.

"It will be always day there," he continued; "none of these weary nights which have been so long and lonely-"

"O, Ralph, live; live for me. I have been blind and wayward. O, come back, and we will live for each other."

"In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you."

The words sounded far, far away.

"Yes, we will live together above, not here. God has so ordered it, my own Dawn. I shall be light, perhaps, to you, even in that far-off land. Nay, 'tis not 'far'; 't is here. I shall dwell in your heart close-close-closer than ever."

He closed his eyes and rested for a few moments. Then, arousing, he clasped her hands firmly, as though he would bear her away with him as he took his heavenward flight.

"Look there," he said, "the river! go close with me-for this is our last moment. Dawn, I am yours; not even death can part us. I am not going; I am coming closer than any earthly relation could bring me to you; coming-call them."

Parents and sister stood beside the bed with tearful eyes. To them he was going far away.

Dawn saw not the death-dew on the marble brow, nor heeded the passing breath. Another sight was given her, and while they stood so statue-like with anguish, her eyes beheld a soft mist gather like snowflakes on the head; and while the breath grew quick and short, this seemed to pulsate with life, until a face was outlined there. That face the same, yet not the same, but her own dear Ralph's, immortalized, set in a softer, finer light. Her being pulsated with new joy. A tide of life seemed to have flown into her heart, leaving no room for pain.

A moan struck on her ear; so sad that she started, and the vision fled.

"O, Ralph, my own loved boy; he's gone, he's gone," burst from the mother's sorrowing heart, as they bore her from the room.

Marion stood dumb with grief, while the poor stricken father bowed his head and wept bitter tears for his lost son.

Had Dawn no grief, that she could stand there and look so calmly on? What made her feel so indifferent to the dead form on which she gazed? Because his life, the life that had once animated it, had passed into hers, and they were one and united. Ralph, warm with life, was imaged in her heart and mind. The clay he bore about him, that husk, had no claim upon her being now, and with scarce a look at the body, she walked away.

"I think she could never have loved him, or she would not seem so cold," were the words that floated to her as she passed from the room where lay all that was mortal of Ralph.

It was as near as she could expect to be understood here, in a world where so much of her real self was hidden; but such words touched her sensibilities none the less, notwithstanding her philosophy. They went deep, like an arrow, into her heart, and then she knew that the house of mourning was no place for her; that she must go, and to the world appear cold and unfeeling, while her heart was ready to burst with its deep emotion.

She left them, and they never knew how dearly she loved him, nor how close his soul was linked with her own. They mourned him as dead, while to her he became each hour a reality, a tangible, living presence, full of tenderness and love.

Miss Weston met Dawn as she passed out of the house, with that look of tender pity, which says, "I know you suffer." In that look their souls met and mounted to higher states. They could not speak, for the tears which flowed over the graves of their dead; their sorrows made them one and akin.

"You will return by to-morrow," said Miss Weston, as she parted with Dawn at the gate, supposing that she designed returning to be present at the funeral.

"No, I cannot."

"Why, Dawn! not follow dear Ralph to his grave?"

"I have no Ralph to bury. He is resurrected-gone higher."

"But the family, they surely-"

"They will not miss me. I am not a part of their lives now. They do not know me, nor do I know myself."

Here trust, light, and vision left; the weakness of flesh uprose, and she went down into the dark valley of grief.

She gave a parting pressure of the hand to her friend, and walked slowly to the station. Alone; O, what relief do our tears give us, when no one can see them flow. In that dim, summer twilight she walked. Fast fell the tears over her cheeks. None but angels knew the sobs, the agony of desolation which swept over her, and like a pall hung between herself and heaven.

It was midnight when she arose from prayer, but morning to her soul. Peace had come; the dove had returned with the olive branch; the waters had gone down, and green banks shored the wild sea of sorrow.

She spent the day of the funeral ceremonies alone in the solitude of the woods. Full of meaning now came to her these words of Christ: "Let the dead bury their dead;" and this was her first personal realization of the truth. Alone, yet not alone. That presence, unseen, but real, was with her, soothing the harshness of sorrow, filling her heart with peace and comfort. Just as the sun sank in clouds of sapphire and crimson, his form stood, radiant, joyous, and life-like before her. It was no myth, no hallucination of the mind. Close, within reach, yet she could not touch him; he stood there, the same Ralph, with all the tenderness of love on his beaming face which he bore in life. No loneliness came over her as the vision faded slowly away; he seemed to dissolve and flow into her heart. The soft twilight, the singing of birds, and charming landscape, with the breath of summer floating on the air, came like sweet accompaniments to the melody which was pulsing her being, and giving her new strength and vigor for life.

She knew, that to her Ralph would each day be a sustaining power, and give life a dual action. When weary of the outer, she could turn within and find one conjoined by the holiest of ties unto her soul.

His life, too, was being unfolded through her, as it could never have been on earth; and as years rolled on she saw how well and good it was that he had passed on before her. There was more completeness to her being than there could possibly have been, had they been united on earth by the form of marriage.

When she emerged from the cloud, all this light transfused her being, and she had no tears, because there was no separation.



CHAPTER XXIX.



We learn in unlearning. We lay aside, one by one, the garments in which we have enwrapped ourselves; garments of various hues, which are our opinions, and so clog and hinder our progress. Happily for us that we find our states changing, and the wrappings of old dogmas too oppressive. Fortunate are we if our freedom of spirit is large enough to enable us to lay aside what was a shield and protection to us yesterday, if it be not fitted for us to-day. He who is strong to do so, benefits all around him, for no good or evil is confined or limited to one. Everything flows; circulation is in all things, natural and spiritual. Life in one is life in another; what is faith in one is also faith in another.

"What is gained by one man is invested in all men, and is a permanent investment for all time.

"A great genius discovers a truth in science, the philosophy of matter; or in philosophy the science of man. He lays it at the feet of humanity, and carefully she weighs in her hand what is so costly to him, and so precious to her.

"She keeps it forever; he may be forgotten, but his truth is a part of the breath of humankind. By a process more magical than magic, it becomes the property of all men, and that forever.

"All excellence is perpetual. A man gets a new truth, a new idea of justice, a new sentiment of religion, and it is a seed of the flower of God, something from the innate substance of the Infinite Father; for truth, justice, love, and faith in the bosom of man are higher manifestations of God than the barren zone of yonder sun; fairer revelations of him than all the brave grandeur of yonder sky. No truth fades out of science, no justice out of politics, no love out of the community, nor out of the family.

"A great man rises, shines a few years, and presently his body goes to the grave, and his spirit to the home of the soul. But no particles of the great man are ever lost; they are not condensed into another great man, they are spread abroad.

"There is more Washington in America now than when he who bore the name stood at the nation's head. Ever since Christ died, there has been a growth of the Christ-like.

"Righteousness grows like corn-that out of the soil, this out of the soul.

"Thus every atom of goodness incarnated in a single person, is put into every person, and ere long spreads over the earth, to create new beauty and sunshine everywhere."

There was one spot which seemed more attractive to Dawn after Ralph's birth, than her home,—our homes are just where our hearts cling for the time, here or there,—and that spot was the home of Miss Bernard and her brother. This desire to be with them was settling into a fixed purpose to go, when one day her friend, Mrs. Austin, burst into her room, saying, "I've come for you. I think a change will do you good."

A short time only was needed to pack a few articles of clothing, and they were soon on their way.

It was early autumn, and the skies and trees were glowing with all the tinges and beauties of that season. Scarlet maples flashed here and there from their back-ground of pines and firs along the road, while over the dead limbs clambered the ivy, more brilliant in death than in life. The air was full of life. The voice of her friend chatting by her side was soothing to her nerves and spirits, for her life had been full almost to bursting since he had come so near.

"You astonish me more and more, Dawn," said her friend, who had dropped her lighter mood, as they rode leisurely by the forest trees, which ever seem to suggest deeper thoughts.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because your reconciliation to your loss seems so strange and unusual."

"I have no loss. My friend has come home closer to my heart and understanding. The form is of little value to us when death gives us so much more of an individual."

"Would I could think as you do, Dawn. You are strange, and yet you seem to get at the very core of life's experiences."

"We cannot all think alike. There must ever be an individuality of thought, as well as of feature, yet on the common ground of principles we can meet. My serenity of mind is born of vision, for most clearly do I perceive that had I been united on earth to Ralph, our lives would have been limited. We should have gone into each other and remained, for he was the complement of my very self. In a world of so much need of labor, we could not be allowed to be of so little use to mankind."

"But I do not see why you might not have blessed humanity more by your united efforts."

"Because we should have been located, spiritually insphered in each other's life. Now I have no excuse for halting. I must be forever moving to some center, and he will find his life in and through me, loving me ever, but yet never quite settling into my life, which he was naturally inclined to do. In his atmosphere I shall gather another kind of strength and life; a life of two-fold power, because he will be so near in affection, so close and indwelling. I shall have the light of his spiritual life within me to guide me on; and can I not labor, yea, bear all things with such strength?"

"O, Dawn, for such light one could call life and toil here, rest and heaven."

"As it ever will be if we seek the harmonies of our lives."

"Now you rob death of its gloom to me. You must talk with Basil of these things, he can understand and appreciate them. Did you know that he was a relative of the Seyton's, a cousin to Ralph's mother?"

Dawn started. It was all clear now. Ralph would have her go to them, and that was the cause of her yearning to be there.

"Shall we go to-morrow," she asked of her friend, who sat abstracted by her side.

"Where?"

"To Miss Bernard's?"

"Yes, to-morrow. They are anxious to see you, as is also your protege, young Mr. Bowen, who has inquired for you every time I have met him."

"I had almost forgotten him in my deep experiences. Has he changed? Does he seem more hopeful?"

"He seems far away. I think it your mission to send people off the earth, or, at least, into larger orbits."

"I should like to make their lives larger, for life is not worth anything unless we are daily putting off the old, and taking on the new. We cannot live our experiences over. Fresh breezes and fresh truths correspond-the outer and inner ever correspond. A clean dwelling indicates purity of heart and purpose, while the reverse leads us to beware of the occupant."

They were now at the home of Mrs. Austin, who considerately conducted Dawn to her room and left her alone until tea-time.

The evening brought Mr. Bowen, who appeared pale and dispirited, but he was speedily assisted to better states through Dawn's efforts.

Again poor Margaret appeared to her sight, this time with a new look on her features, as though she had gathered strength and light from the partial recognition of one who had betrayed her, yet from whose life she could not be separated until the spiritual balance of forgiveness had been given and received.

Clarence was soon engaged in earnest conversation. "Do you not think, Miss Wyman," said he, "that we may be weakened physically by spirits who come into our atmosphere?"

"I have no doubt of it. If they remain, and are not illuminating, or changing their states; if they come to do us good, even, they may sometimes weaken us, because our magnetism which sustains them becomes attenuated."

"I have thought that I was at times weaker, from the presence of one whom I feel is near to me."

"It may be. She cannot rise until you are ready to do so. And when you both go to higher states, or you enter hers, a new life will inflow. There will come relief. There is monotony now in the influence, because she is waiting for new truths to be infused into your mind before others can flow in. Perhaps I cannot make it as clear to your mind as I perceive it."

"The thought is suggestive, at least, and will help me out. I suppose these things are of slow growth in the human mind, like all things in nature?"

"They would not be of the soul were they not slow, and of little value to us did they not ripen in the warmth and nurture of our own sunshine."

"True. I would know more of these things. They give me strength to bear life's burdens much better, and although they seem to take my thoughts from my duties, I seem to be brought nearer to them; yet I cannot quite comprehend how it is."

"This influence does not take your mind away; it lifts it above your cares, and makes you more contentedly subjective to the law that governs. Truth ever renders us content to bear, while it liberates us from thraldom."

"I know that my life beyond will be richer and nobler for what little I have of these truths here. You have greatly blest me-"

"And blest myself," she added, seeing the rich gratitude of his soul falter with the poverty of words.

He took her hand, pressed it warmly in token of his deep indebtedness, and they parted, to meet no more on earth, save in spirit. That night the death-angel came. He was seized with hemorrhage of the lungs, and died instantaneously.

The wife of the world, whom position and society had chained him to, put on robes of mourning, and in three months was a gay, flirting widow, while he was happy in the summer land, joined to his mate, the bride of his soul's first love.

For a long time Dawn felt not the presence of either Clarence or Margaret. They were away, reposing in the atmosphere of forgiveness and love, and learning that "it is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die."

Dawn sat beside Basil as an old friend, holding a likeness of Ralph in her hand.

"I little thought that you knew our dear Ralph," said Mr. Bernard, breaking the silence they had enjoyed, "and yet I ought to have recognized his life within yours, Miss Wyman."

Dawn knew well why he did not, for she had kept him away from herself.

"I usually feel the sphere of the one dearest to another, when I come into their presence; but this time I was completely in the dark. There is some reason for it, I know." She knew it, and also that he could read her mind.

"I will keep nothing back," she thought, and told him all. Just as she had finished, Mrs. Austin and his sister came in from the garden.

"Your conditions must have blended very closely," said Beatrice, playfully, "it seems as though there was but one person in the room."

"You are becoming a dangerous person to have about," said her brother, while his tone and speech were greatly at variance, for his voice to her was always sweetly modulated and full of tenderness.

Mr. Bernard brought to Dawn a folio of drawings, some of Ralph's early sketches, which they looked over together until the hour of retiring, when the evening closed with a calm and natural prayer, such as was nightly heard in that pleasant home.

"I shall claim Miss Wyman to-morrow," said Beatrice; "I have a great many subjects which I wish to talk upon with her; so, brother, you will see that our friend, Mrs. Austin, is entertained."

"We will engage to make you very sorry that you are not of our party," he answered, as they separated for the night.

"Now you are mine for a few hours," said Miss Bernard, after breakfast, to her guest, as she led the way, followed by Dawn, to a little room which she had fitted up, and in which she studied or mused, sewed or wrote, as the mood prompted. The walls were hung with pictures, her own work, some in oil, others in crayon; all landscapes of the most poetic conception and delicate finish.

"I have always longed for the power to express my thoughts in pictures. What a keen enjoyment it must be, Miss Bernard, to have such a resource within one's self."

"I think the power resides in every person, and only waits a quickening, like all other powers."

Dawn thought of the hour in Germany when Ralph sat and sketched her portrait, and the intervening time was as though it had not been. It was but yesterday, and she sat again by his side watching the deep life of his eyes, eyes on which she would never look again. Were they closed forever? "O, heart so desolate. O, lone and barren shore, where are the waves of joy? All receded; all; and she seemed to stand upon the beach alone, while a chill ran over her.

"You are chilly, Miss Wyman, let me close the window."

But Dawn heard not, saw not; for before her vision appeared a face all radiant with life, toned by a look of intensest sympathy; while on the brow glittered a star so radiant that mortal might not gaze upon it. Its rays seemed to enter her very soul, and pierce it with life and light, bathing it with a flood of joy. It was no longer dark, her face beamed with a strange light when Miss Bernard turned to call her attention to some pictures which were unfinished.

"You seemed far away, Miss Wyman," said she. "It's so like Basil. He has such moments of abstraction, and almost takes me with him."

"I was away for a moment; but what a lovely picture you have here."

"It's one I am trying to copy, but I make little progress."

"Truth is not necessarily literal, is it? If so, I should make a poor copyist."

"It is not; and there is where most persons fail. 'The Divine can never be literal, and there is in all art a vanishing point, where the Divine merges itself into the ideal.' And that vanishing point is seen in the human composition, as well as in natural objects, that point where we lose ourselves in the Divine, and merge our own being into that greater, grander being. You are an artist, Miss Wyman, you group human souls and portray them in all their naturalness; not on canvas, for that could not be, but spiritually to our inner sight.

"I love art in whatever form it may come to glorify life, for true art is catholic, beneficent, touching with its mystic wand every soul within its reach, thrilling even the sluggish and the slumbering with a new sense of the Divine bounty which makes this world so lovely and fair."

Miss Bernard looked grateful for the rich appreciation of her guest, which she had scarce dared hope to find; and from art they drifted to life and some of its present needs, glowing with friendly recognition as they advanced and found each possessed with similar views. Thus do we meet pilgrims on the way, at some unexpected turn, when we thought ourselves alone upon the road.

"I know by these pictures, Miss Bernard," said Dawn, "that your life is full of practicality."

"You surprise me, for every stranger thinks that I do nothing else."

"If nothing else, you would not do this, or anything of a fanciful nature."

"I see you have had some experience, for very few entertain that sentiment."

"I have seen enough to know that those whose time is at their own disposal rarely accomplish anything, either practical or beautiful. The one helps the other, and one who delves hardest in the practical, rises ofttimes highest in the ideal."

"It is true of my own self, and others. My experiences have been varied and deep in human life and I have learned that time is of no value unless it is estimated by the amount of labor that can be accomplished. When thus estimated, however it may be employed, the results are productive of good to the individual."

"How I wish, Miss Bernard, that the whole human family might have just enough labor and time for improvement which they need. Life looks so hard and inharmonious at times, when we see thousands toiling from early morn till night, with no moments for thought or culture, that we cannot but ask where justice to God's children is meted out."