The old man's eyes filled as he noted the radiance of the woman's lovely face.
"You have indeed cause for gratitude and great joy, as you realize all the good you are destined to accomplish, and I know the rapture of saving souls, for, through God's grace, I believe I have snatched some from the brink of ruin. But, Edna, can the triumph of your genius, the applause of the world, the approval of conscience, even the assurance that you are laboring successfully for the cause of Christ--can all these things satisfy your womanly heart--your loving, tender heart? My child, there is a dreary look sometimes in your eyes, that reveals loneliness, almost weariness of life. I have studied your countenance closely when it was in repose; I read it I think without errors; and as often as I hear your writings praised, I recall those lines, written by one of the noblest of your own sex: 'To have our books Appraised by love, associated with love, While we sit loveless! is it hard, you think? At least, 'tis mournful.'
Edna, are you perfectly contented with your lot?"
A shadow drifted slowly over the marble face, and though it settled on no feature, the whole countenance was changed.
"I can not say that I am perfectly content, and yet I would not exchange places with any woman I know."
"Do you never regret a step which you took one evening, yonder in my church?"
"No, sir, I do not regret it. I often thank God that I was able to obey my conscience and take that step."
"Suppose that in struggling up the steep path of duty one soul needs the encouragement, the cheering companionship which only one other human being can give? Will the latter be guiltless if the aid is obstinately withheld?"
"Suppose the latter feels that in joining hands both would stumble?"
"You would not, oh, Edna! you would lift each other to noble heights! Each life would be perfect, complete. My child, will you let me tell you some things that ought to--"
She threw up her hand, with that old, childish gesture which he remembered so well, and shook her head.
"No, sir; no, sir! Please tell me nothing that will rouse a sorrow I am striving to drug. Spare me, for as St. Chrysostom once said of Olympias the deaconess, I 'live in perpetual fellowship with pain.'"
"My dear little Edna, as I look at you and think of your future, I am troubled about you. I wish I could confidently say to you, what that same St. Chrysostom wrote to Pentadia: 'For I know your great and lofty soul, which can sail as with a fair wind through many tempests, AND IN THE MIDST OF THE WAVES ENJOY A WHITE CALM.'"