was chilled; there were cold thoughts in her mind—­icy specters in her heart; and she quickened her pace up and down the avenue, dusky beneath the ancient gloomy cedars.  One idea haunted her:  aside from revelation, what proof had she that, unlike those moldering flowers, her spirit should never die?  No trace was to be found of the myriads of souls who had preceded her.  Where were the countless hosts?  Were life and death balanced? was her own soul chiliads old, forgetting its former existences, save as dim, undefinable reminiscences, flashed fitfully upon it?  If so, was it a progression?  How did she know that her soul had not entered her body fresh from the release of the hangman, instead of coming down on angel wings from its starry home, as she had loved to think?  A passage which she had read many weeks before flashed upon her mind:  “Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the dead children.  After a time uprises the everlasting sun; and the mother starts up at the summons of the heavenly dawn, with a resurrection of her ancient bloom.  And her children?  Yes, but they must wait a while!” This resurrection was springtime, beckoning dormant beauty from the icy arms of winter; how long must the children wait for the uprising of the morning star of eternity?  From childhood these unvoiced queries had perplexed her mind, and, strengthening with her growth, now cried out peremptorily for answers.  With shuddering dread she strove to stifle the spirit which, once thoroughly awakened, threatened to explore every nook and cranny of mystery.  She longed to talk freely with her guardian regarding many of the suggestions which puzzled her, but shrank instinctively from broaching such topics.  Now, in her need, the sublime words of Job came to her:  “Oh, that my words were now written! oh, that they were printed in a book; for I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.”  Handel’s “Messiah” had invested this passage with resistless grandeur, and, leaving the cold, dreary garden, she sat down before the melodeon and sang a portion of the Oratorio.  The sublime strains seemed to bear her worshiping soul up to the presence-chamber of Deity, and exultingly she repeated the concluding words: 

    “For now is Christ risen from the dead: 
     The first-fruits of them that sleep.”

The triumph of faith shone in her kindled eyes, though glittering drops fell on the ivory keys, and the whole countenance bespoke a heart resting in the love of the Father.  While her fingers still rolled waves of melody through the room, Dr. Hartwell entered, with a parcel in one hand and a magnificent cluster of greenhouse flowers in the other.  He laid the latter before Beulah, and said: 

“I want you to go with me to-night to hear Sontag.  The concert commences at eight o’clock, and you have no time to spare.  Here are some flowers for your hair; arrange it as you have it now; and here, also, a pair of white gloves.  When you are ready, come down and make my tea.”