"Is it so very late?"

"It is time we were going back, I think."

Beulah tied on the hat and cape, which had been thrown aside, and

saw them ride away.

There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on

its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded

like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From

the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed

his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to God's

care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell

took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her

desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle

with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw

its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of

metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion

of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which

only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of

speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been

ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this,

under various fictitious signatures, was hers. She still studied and

wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame;

wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been

entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure

fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen

were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their

parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams'

death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred

remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of

the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as

assistant, but as principal in that department; and the increased

salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary.

Her intense love of beauty, whether found in nature or art, was a

constant source of pleasure; books, music, painting, flowers, all

contributed largely to her happiness. The grim puzzles of philosophy

no longer perplexed her mind; sometimes they thrust themselves

before her, threatening as the sphinx of old; but she knew that here

they were insolvable; that at least her reason was no Oedipus, and a

genuine philosophy induced her to put them aside, and, anchoring

her hopes of God and eternity in the religion of Christ, she drew

from the beautiful world in which she lived much pure enjoyment.

Once she had worshiped the universe; now she looked beyond the

wonderful temple whose architecture, from its lowest foundations of

rock to its starry dome of sky, proclaimed the God of revelation;

and, loving its beauty and grandeur, felt that it was but a home for

a season, where the soul could be fitted for yet more perfect

dwelling-places. Her face reflected the change which a calm reliance

on God had wrought in her feelings. The restless, anxious expression

had given place to quiet. The eyes had lost their strained, troubled

look; the brow was unruffled, the face serene. Serene, reader, but

not happy and sparkling as it might have been. All the shadows "were

not yet banished from her heart; there was one spectral form which

thrust itself continually before her and kept her cheek pale and

rendered her lip at times unsteady. She had struggled bravely

against this one remaining sorrow; but, as time rolled on, its power

and influence only increased. Even now, in this quiet hour, when a

holy hush had fallen on all nature, and twilight wrapped its soft,

purple veil around her, this haunting memory came to stir the depths

of her heart. Charon walked slowly up the steps, and, lying down at

her feet, nestled his head against her. Then fancy painted a dreary

picture, which "Seemed all dark and red--a tract of sand,

And someone pacing there alone,

Who paced forever in a glimmering land,

Lit with a low, large moon."




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