in the Divine Light is and from the Divine Light, has neither spiritual pride nor careless license nor an independent spirit—­but a great humility, and a broken and contrite heart,—­and all propriety and honesty, justice and truth, peace and happiness,—­all that belongs to all virtues, it must have.  When it is otherwise, then he is not happy, as has been said.  When this does not help to this union, then there is nothing which may hinder it but man alone with his own will, which does him such great harm.  That, one ought to know.”

“This is sufficient,” said she; “I believe we understand each other now.  In another place, our unknown friend says still more unmistakably that no man is passive before death, and that the glorified man is like the hand of God, which does nothing of itself except as God wills; or, like a house in which God dwells.  A God-possessed man feels this perfectly, but does not speak of it.  He treasures his life in God like a love secret.  It often seems to me like that silver poplar before my window.  It is perfectly still at evening, and not a leaf trembles or stirs.  When the morning breeze rustles and tosses every leaf, the trunk with its branches stands still and immovable, and when autumn conies, though every leaf which once rustled falls to the ground and withers, the trunk waits for a new spring.”

She had lived so deep a life in her world that I did not wish to disturb it.  I had but just released myself with difficulty from the magic circle of these thoughts, and scarcely knew whether she had not chosen the better part which could not be taken away from her; while we have so much trouble and care.

Thus every evening brought its new conversation, and with each evening, some new phase of her fathomless mind disclosed itself.  She kept no secret from me.  Her talk was only thinking and feeling aloud, and what she said must have dwelt with her many long years, for she poured out her thoughts as freely as a child that picks its lap full of flowers and then sprinkles them upon the grass.  I could not disclose my soul to her as freely as she did to me, and this oppressed and pained me.  Yet how few can, with those continual deceptions imposed upon us by society, called manners, politeness, consideration, prudence, and worldly wisdom, which make our entire life a masquerade!  How few, even when they would, can regain the complete truth of their existence!  Love itself dares not speak its own language and maintain its own silence, but must learn the set phrases of the poet and idealize, sigh and flirt instead of freely greeting, beholding and surrendering itself, I would most gladly have confessed and said to her:  “You know me not,” but I found that the words were not wholly true.  Before I left, I gave her a volume of Arnold’s poems, which I had had a short time, and begged her to read the one called “The Buried Life.”  It was my confession, and then I kneeled at her couch and said “Good Night.”