Chapter VIII - Page 2

the lady asking to be excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only a few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments on the stairs. My first glance at her face assured me that I was no unwelcome visitor.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said, as she extended her hand, "for this early call. Our meeting last night for the first time can hardly be called a pleasant one--or the associations connected with it such as either of us might wish to recall."

"Our control over events is so slight," I made answer as I resumed my seat, "that we should separate unpleasant feelings as far as possible from any memories connected with them."

A faint, sad smile just lightened up her placid face as she said, in reply to the remark.

"Ah, Doctor, that may not be. Lives are too intimately blended here for any one to suffer or do wrong without leaving a burden of sadness on other memories."

"True; but the burden will be light or heavy according to our strength."

She looked at me without replying, for the remark was so palpable, that it seemed to involve nothing beyond a literal fact.

"Or rather," I said, "the burden will be heavy or light according to our state or quality."

There was a sign of awakening interest in her countenance as if my remark had touched some hidden spring of thought.

"If we are right with ourselves," I went on, "the disturbance produced by others' misconduct will not reach very far down. The pressure of sadness may lie upon us for a season; but cannot long remain; for the pure heart will lift itself into serene atmospheres."

"But, who is right with himself?" she said. "Whose heart is pure enough to dwell in these serene atmospheres? Not mine, alas!"

I looked into the suddenly illuminated face as she put these questions, in surprise at the quick change which had passed over it. But the tone in which she uttered the closing sentence was touched with tender sadness.

"Rather let me say," I made answer, "in the degree that we are right with ourselves. None attain unto perfection here."

"Yet," said the lady, with a sweet calmness of manner that made her look beautiful, "is it not pleasant to imagine a state of perfection--or rather a state in which evil is quiescent, and the heart active with all good and loving impulses? How full of inspiration is such an ideal of life! But the way by which we must go, if we would rise into this state, is one of difficulty and perpetual warfare. The enemies of our peace are numbered by myriads; and they. seek with deadly hatred to do us harm."

"And yet are powerless," said I, "if we keep the outworks of our lives in order."

"Yes," she answered, "it is the very