world round us, and the future of the world too, seem full of light even down to its murkiest and foulest depths, when we can but remember that great idea,—­An infinitely useful God over all, who is trying to make each of us useful in his place.  If that be not the beatific vision of which old Mystics spoke so rapturously, one glimpse of which was perfect bliss, I at least know none nobler, desire none more blessed.  Pray forgive me, Miss St. Just!  I ought not to intrude thus!”

“Go on!” said Valencia.

“I—­I really have no more to say.  I have said too much.  I do not know how I have been betrayed so far,” stammered Frank, who had the just dislike of his school of anything like display on such solemn matters.

“Can you tell us too much truth?  Mr. Headley is right, Mr. Mellot, and you are wrong.”

“It will not be the first time, Miss St. Just.  But what I spoke in jest, he has answered in earnest.”

“He was quite right.  We are none of us half earnest enough.  There is Lucia with the children.”  And she rose and walked across the garden.

“You have moved the fair trifler somewhat,” said Claude.

“God grant it! but I cannot think what made me.”

“Why think?  You spoke out nobly, and I shall not forget your sermon.”

“I was not preaching at you, most affectionate and kindly of men.”

“And laziest of men, likewise.  What can I do now, at this moment, to be of use to any one?  Set me my task.”

But Frank was following with his eyes Valencia, as she went hurriedly across to Lucia.  He saw her take two of the children at once off her sister’s hands, and carry them away down a walk.  A few minutes afterwards he could hear her romping with them; but he could not have guessed, from the silver din of those merry voices, that Valencia’s heart was heavy within her.

For her conscience was really smitten.  Of what use was she in the world?  Major Campbell had talked to her often about her duties to this person and to that, of this same necessity of being useful; but she had escaped from the thought, as we have seen her, in laughing at poor little Scoutbush on the very same score.  But why had not Major Campbell’s sermons touched her heart as this one had?  Who can tell?  Who is there among us to whom an oft-heard truth has not become a tiresome and superfluous commonplace, till one day it has flashed before us utterly new, indubitable, not to be disobeyed, written in letters of fire across the whole vault of heaven?  All one can say is, that her time was not come.  Besides, she looked on Major Campbell as a being utterly superior to herself; and that very superiority, while it allowed her to be as familiar with him as she chose, excused her in her own eyes from opening to him her real heart.  She could safely jest with him, let him pet her, play at being his daughter, while she felt that between him and her lay a gulf as wide as between earth and