waves; and when with laborious care she has adjusted all things in the light of hope, back flows the tide, and sweeps all away.  In such struggles life spends itself fast; an inward wound does not carry one deathward more surely than this worst wound of the soul.  God has made us so mercifully that there is no certainty, however dreadful, to which life-forces do not in time adjust themselves,—­but to uncertainty there is no possible adjustment.  Where is he?  Oh, question of questions!—­question which we suppress, but which a power of infinite force still urges on the soul, who feels a part of herself torn away.

Mary sat at her window in evening hours, and watched the slanting sunbeams through the green blades of grass, and thought one year ago he stood there, with his well-knit, manly form, his bright eye, his buoyant hope, his victorious mastery of life!  And where was he now?  Was his heart as sick, longing for her, as hers for him?  Was he looking back to earth and its joys with pangs of unutterable regret? or had a divine power interpenetrated his soul, and lighted there the flame of a celestial love which bore him far above earth?  If he were among the lost, in what age of eternity could she ever be blessed?  Could Christ be happy, if those who were one with Him were sinful and accursed? and could Christ’s own loved ones be happy, when those with whom they have exchanged being, in whom they live and feel, are as wandering stars, for whom is reserved the mist of darkness forever?  She had been taught that the agonies of the lost would be forever in sight of the saints, without abating in the least their eternal joys; nay, that they would find in it increasing motives to praise and adoration.  Could it be so?  Would the last act of the great Bridegroom of the Church be to strike from the heart of his purified Bride those yearnings of self-devoting love which His whole example had taught her, and in which she reflected, as in a glass, His own nature?  If not, is there not some provision by which those roots of deathless love which Christ’s betrothed ones strike into other hearts shall have a divine, redeeming power?  Question vital as life-blood to ten thousand hearts,—­fathers, mothers, wives, husbands,—­to all who feel the infinite sacredness of love!

After the first interview with Mrs. Marvyn, the subject which had so agitated them was not renewed.  She had risen at last from her sick-bed, as thin and shadowy as a faded moon after sunrise.  Candace often shook her head mournfully, as her eyes followed her about her dally tasks.  Once only, with Mary, she alluded to the conversation which had passed between them;—­it was one day when they were together, spinning, in the north upper room that looked out upon the sea.  It was a glorious day.  A ship was coming in under full sail, with white gleaming wings.  Mrs. Marvyn watched it a few moments,—­the gay creature, so full of exultant life,—­and then smothered down an inward groan, and Mary thought she heard her saying, “Thy will be done!”