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book, than his rested searchingly on her face. At first she read without much manifestation of interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head which Charon had laid on her lap. After a while the lips parted eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon's head ceased. Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of enthusiastic pleasure. Another page fluttered over, à flush stole across her brow; and as she closed the volume, her whole face was irradiated.

"What are you reading ?" asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed tc sink into a reverie.

"Analects from Richter."

"De Quincey's!"

"Yes, sir."

"Once that marvellous Dream upon the Universe' fascinated me as completely as it now does you.'

Memories of earlier days clustered about him, parting the sombre clouds with their rosy fingers. His features began to soften.

"Sir, can you read it now without feeling your soul kindle ?" "Yes, child: it has lost its interest for me. I read it as indifferently as I do one of my medical books. So will you one

day."

"Never! It shall be a guide-book to my soul, telling of the pathway arched with galaxies and paved with suns, through which that soul shall pass in triumph to its final rest!"

"And who shall remain in that illimitable dungeon of pure darkness, which imprisons creation? That dead sea of nothing, in whose unfathomable zone of blackness the jewel of the glittering universe is set, and buried forever?' Child, is not that, too, a dwelling-place?" He passed his fingers through his hair, sweeping it all back from his ample forehead. Beulah opened the book, and read aloud:

"Immediately my eyes were opened, and I saw, as it were, an interminable sea of light; all spaces between all heavens were filled with happiest light, for the deserts and wastes of the creation were now filled with the sea of light, and in this sea the suns floated like ash-grey blossoms, and the planets like black grains of seed. Then my heart comprehended that immortality dwelled in the spaces between the words, and Death only among the worlds; and the murky planets I perceived were but cradles for the infant spirits of the universe of light! In the Zaarahs of the creation I saw, I heard, I felt the glittering, the echoing, the breathing of life and creative power!"

She closed the volume, and while her lips trembled with deep feeling, added earnestly:

"Oh, sir, it makes me long, like Jean Paul, for some narrow cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the universe.'

It is an infinite conception and painting of infinity, which my soul endeavours to grasp, but wearies in thinking of!"

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and pointing to a row of books, said with some eagerness:

"I will test your love of Jean Paul. Give me that large volume in crimson binding on the second shelf. No-further on; that

is it."

He turned over the leaves for a few minutes, and with a finger still on the page, put it into her hand, saying:

"Begin here at 'I went through the worlds,' and read down to 'when I awoke.""

She sat down and read. He put his hand carelessly over his eyes and watched her curiously through his fingers. It was evident that she soon became intensely interested. He could see the fierce throbbing of a vein in her throat, and the tight clutching of her fingers. Her eyebrows met in the wrinkling forehead, and the lips were compressed severely. Gradually the flush faded from her cheek, an expression of pain and horror swept over her stormy face, and rising hastily, she exclaimed:

"False! false! That everlasting storm which no one guides tells me in thunder tones that there is a home of rest in the presence of the infinite father! Oh, chance does not roam, like a destroying angel, through that 'snow-powder of stars!' The love of our God is over all his works as a mantle! Though you should 'take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,' lo! He is there! The sorrowing children of the universe are not orphans! Neither did Richter believe it; well might he declare that with this sketch he would 'terrify himself' and vanquish the spectre of Atheism! Oh, sir! the dear God stretches his arm about each and all of us! When the sorrowladen lays himself, with a galled back, into the earth, to sleep till a fairer morning,' it is not true that 'he awakens in a stormy chaos, in an everlasting midnight!' It is not true! He goes home to his loved dead, and spends a blissful eternity in the kingdom of Jehovah, where death is no more, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!'"

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She laid the volume on his knee, and tears which would not be restrained, rolled swiftly over her cheeks.

He looked at her mournfully, and took her hand in his.

"My child, do you believe all this as heartily as you did when a little girl? Is your faith in your religion unshaken ?"

He felt her fingers close over his spasmodically, as she hastily replied:

"Of course, of course! What could shake a faith which years should strengthen ?"

But the shiver which crept through her frame denied her assertion, and with a keen pang he saw the footprints of the Destroyer.

She must not know, however, that he doubted her words, and with an effort, he said:

"I am glad, Beulah; and if you would continue to believe, don't read my books promiscuously. There are many on those shelves yonder which I would advise you never to open. Be warned in time, my child."

She snatched her hand from his, and answered proudly:

"Sir, think you I could be satisfied with a creed which I could not bear to have investigated? If I abstain from reading your books, dreading lest my faith be shaken, then I could no longer confide in that faith. Christianity has triumphed over the subtleties of infidelity for eighteen hundred years; what have I to fear ?"

"Beulah, do you want to be just what I am? Without belief in any creed! hopeless of eternity as of life! Do you want to be like me? If not, keep your hands off of my books! Good night; it is time for you to be asleep."

He motioned her away, and too much pained to reply, she silently withdrew.

CHAPTER XV.

BEULAH REFLECTS-GOES TO HEAR SONTAG-HER DELIGHT -MEETS CORNELIA GRAHAM-THE DOCTOR EXCITED.

HE day had been clear, though cold, and late in the afternoon, Beulah wrapped a shawl about her, and ran out into the front yard for a walk. The rippling tones of the fountain were hushed; the shrubs were bare, and, outside the greenhouse, not a flower was to be seen. Even the hardy chrysan. themums were brown and shrivelled. Here vegetation slumbered in the grave of winter. The hedges were green, and occasional clumps of cassina bent their branches beneath the weight of coral fruitage. Tall poplars lifted their leafless arms helplessly toward the sky, and threw grotesque shadows on the ground beneath, while the wintry wind chanted a mournful dirge through the sombre foliage of the aged, solemn cedars. Noisy flocks of robins fluttered among the trees, eating the ripe, red yupon berries, and now and then, parties of pigeons circled round and round the house. Charon lay on the door-step, blinking at the setting sun, with his sage face dropped on his paws. Afar off was heard the hum of the city; but here all was quiet and peaceful. Beulah looked over the beds, lately so brilliant and fragrant in their wealth of floral beauty; at the bare grey poplars, whose musical rustling had so often hushed her to sleep in cloudless summer nights, and an expression of serious

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thoughtfulness settled on her face. Many months before, she had watched the opening spring in this same garden. Had seen young leaves and delicate blossoms bud out from naked stems, had noted their rich luxuriance as the summer heat came on-their mature beauty; and when the first breath of autumn sighed through the land, she saw them flush and decline, and gradually die and rustle down to their graves. Now, where green boughs and perfumed petals had gaily looked up in the sunlight, all was desolate. The piercing northern wind seemed to whisper as it passed, "life is but the germ of death, and death the development of a higher life." Was the cycle eternal then? Were the beautiful ephemera she had loved so dearly gone down into the night of death, but for a season, to be born again, in some distant springtime, mature, and return, as before, to the charnel-house? Were the three-score and ten years of human life analogous ? Life, too, had its springtime, its summer of maturity, its autumnal decline, and its wintry night of death. Were the cold sleepers in the neighbouring cemetry waiting, like those dead flowers, for the tireless processes of nature, whereby their dust was to be reanimated, remolded, lighted with a soul, and set forward for another journey of three score and ten years of life and labor? Men lived and died; their ashes enriched mother Earth, new creations sprang, phoenix-like, from the sepulchre of the old. Another generation trod life's path in the dim footprints of their predecessors, and that, too, vanished in the appointed process, mingling dust with dust, that Protean matter might hold the even tenor of its way, in accordance with the oracular decrees of Isis. Was it true that, since the original Genesis, "nothing had been gained, and nothing lost?" Was earth, indeed, a monstrous Kronos? If so was not she as old as creation? To how many other souls had her body given shelter? How was her identity to be maintained? True, she had read that identity was housed in "consciousness," not bones and muscles? But could there be consciousness without bones and muscles? She drew her shawl closely around her, and looked up at the cloudless sea of azure. The sun had sunk below the horizon; the birds had all gone to rest; Charon had sought the study rug; even the distant hum of the city was no longer heard. "The silver sparks of stars were rising on the altar of the east, and falling down in the red sea of the west." Beulah was chilled; there were cold thoughts in her mind-icy spectre in her heart; and she quickened her pace up and down the avenue, dusky beneath the ancient gloomy cedars. One idea haunted her; aside from revelation, what proof had she that unlike those mouldering flowers, her spirit should never die? No trace was too be found of the myriads of souls who had preceded her. Where were the countless hosts ? Were life and death balanced? was her own soul chiliads old, forgetting its former existences, save as dim, indefinable reminiscences, flashed fitfully upon it? If so, was it a progression? How did

she know that her soul had not entered her body fresh from the release of the hangman, instead of coming down on angel wings from its starry home, as she had loved to think? A passage which she had read many weeks before flashed upon her mind: "Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the dead children. After a time, uprises the everlasting sun; and the mother starts up at the summons of the heavenly dawn, with a resurrection of her ancient bloom. And her children?—Yes, but they must wait awhile!" This resurrection was springtime, beckoning dormant beauty from the icy arms of winter; how long must the children wait for the uprising of the morning star of eternity? From childhood these unvoiced queries had perplexed her mind, and, strengthening with her growth, now cried out peremptorily for answers. With shuddering dread she strove to stifle the spirit which, once thoroughly awakened, threatened to explore every nook and cranny of mystery. She longed to talk freely with her guardian, regarding many of the suggestions which puzzled her, but shrank instinctively from broaching such topics. Now in her need, the sublime words of Job came to her: "Oh, that my words were now written! oh, that they were printed in a book; for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God." Handel's Messiah" had invested this passage with resistless grandeur, and leaving the cold, dreary garden, she sat down before the melodeon and sang a portion of the Oratorio. The sublime strains seemed to bear her worshipping soul up to the presence chamber of Deity, and exultingly she repeated the concluding words:

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"For now is Christ risen from the dead;
The first-fruits of them that sleep."

The triumph of faith shone in her kindled eyes, though glittering drops fell on the ivory keys, and the whole countenance bespoke a heart resting in the love of the Father. While her fingers still rolled waves of melody through the room, Dr. Hartwell entered, with a parcel in one hand and a magnificent cluster of greenhouse flowers in the other. He laid the latter before Beulah, and said:

"I want you to go with me to-night to hear Sontag. The concert commences at eight o'clock, and you have no time to spare. Here are some flowers for your hair; arrange it as you have it now; and here, also, a pair of white gloves. When you are ready, come down and make my tea."

"Thank you, sir, for remembering me so kindly, and supplying all my wants so

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"Beulah, there are tears on your lashes. What is the matter?" interrupted the doctor, pointing to the drops which had fallen on the rosewood frame of the melodeon.

"Is it not enough to bring tears to my eyes when I think of all

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