spring; and, as the curiously folded coil quivers on again, the resuscitated will is lifted triumphantly back to its throne.  This newborn power is from God.  But, ye wise ones of earth, tell us how, and by whom, is the key applied?  Are ministering angels (our white-robed idols, our loved dead) ordained to keep watch over the machinery of the will and attend to the winding up?  Or is this infusion of strength, whereby to continue its operations, a sudden tightening of those invisible cords which bind the All-Father to the spirits he has created?  Truly, there is no Oedipus for this vexing riddle.  Many luckless theories have been devoured by the Sphinx; when will metaphysicians solve it?  One tells us vaguely enough, “Who knows the mysteries of will, with its vigor?  Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death, utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”  This pretty bubble of a “latent strength” has vanished; the power is from God; but who shall unfold the process?  Clara felt that this precious help was given in her hour of need; and, looking up undauntedly to the clouds that darkened her sky, said to her hopeless heart:  “I will live to do my duty, and God’s work on eirth; I will go bravely forward in my path of labor, strewing flowers and sunshine.  If God needs a lonely, chastened spirit to do his behests, oh! shall I murmur and die because I am chosen?  What are the rushing, howling waves of life in comparison with the calm, shoreless ocean of all eternity?”

The lamp was brought in and the fire renewed, and the two friends sat by the hearth, silent, quiet.  Clara’s face had a sweet, serene look:  Beulah’s was composed, so far as rigidity of features betokened; yet the firm curve of her full upper lip might have indexed somewhat of the confusion which reigned in her mind.  Once a great, burning light flashed out from her eyes, then the lashes drooped a little and veiled the storm.  After a time Clara lifted her eyes, and said gently: 

“Will you read to me, Beulah?”

“Gladly, gladly; what shall it be?” She sprang up eagerly.

“Anything hopeful and strengthening.  Anything but your study-books of philosophy and metaphysics.  Anything but those, Beulah.”

“And why not those?” asked the girl quickly.

“Because they always confuse and darken me.”

“You do not understand them, perhaps?”

“I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I need.”

“What do you need, Clara?”

“The calm content and courage to do my duty through life.  I want to be patient and useful.”

The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out.  The night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down the panes.  She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning: