Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of ‘ideas.’  Were infants born with or without them?  Did ideas arise or develop them selves independently of experience?  The affirmation or denial of this proposition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled with psychology; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect question further?  Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores of Eternity?

CHAPTER XXXI.

Time, “like a star, unhasting, yet unresting,” moved on.  The keen blasts of winter were gathered back in their Northern storehouses, and the mild airs of spring floated dreamily beneath genial skies.  The day had been cloudless and balmy, but now the long, level rays of sunshine, darting from the horizon, told it “was well-nigh done”; and Beulah sat on the steps of her cottage home and watched the dolphin-like death.  The regal splendors of Southern springtime were on every side; the bright, fresh green of the grassy common, with its long, velvety slopes, where the sunshine fell slantingly; the wild luxuriance of the Cherokee rose hedges, with their graceful streamers gleaming with the snow powder of blossoms; the waving of newborn foliage; the whir and chirping of birds, as they sought their leafy shelters; brilliant patches of verbena, like flakes of rainbow, in the neighboring gardens, and the faint, sweet odor of violet, jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle burdening the air.  Beulah sat with her hands folded on her lap; an open book lay before her—­a volume of Euskin; but the eyes had wandered away from his gorgeous descriptions, to another and still more entrancing volume—­the glorious page of nature; and as the swift Southern twilight gathered she sat looking out, mute and motionless.  The distant pinetops sang their solemn, soothing lullaby, and a new moon sat royally in the soft violet sky.  Around the columns of the little portico a luxuriant wistaria clambered, and long, purple blossoms, with their spicy fragrance, drooped almost on Beulah’s head, as she leaned it against the pillar.  The face wore a weary, suffering look; the large, restless eyes were sadder than ever, and there were tokens of languor in every feature.  A few months had strangely changed the countenance once so hopeful and courageous in its uplifted expression.  The wasted form bore evidence of physical suffering, and the slender fingers were like those of a marble statue.  Yet she had never missed an hour in the schoolroom, nor omitted one iota of the usual routine of mental labor.  Rigorously the tax was levied, no matter how the weary limbs ached or how painfully the head throbbed; and now nature rebelled at the unremitted exaction, and clamored for a reprieve.  Mrs. Williams had been confined to her room for many days by an attack of rheumatism, and the time devoted to her was generally reclaimed from sleep.  It was no mystery that she looked ill and spent.  Now, as she sat watching