She raised her colorless face, and said drearily, as she passed her hand over her forehead: 

“Weary?  Ah, yes; weary as the lonely mariner, tempest-tossed on some pathless ocean, without chart or compass.  In my sky, even the star of hope is shrouded.  Weary?  Yes; in body and mind.”

“Then humble your proud intellect; confess your ignorance and inability, and rest in God and Christianity.”

She made an impatient gesture, and, turning away, he walked up and down the floor.  For some moments neither spoke.  Finally he approached her, and continued: 

“There is strange significance in the Mosaic record of the Fall.  Longing for the fruits of knowledge, whereby the mysteries of God would be revealed, cost man Eden.  The first pair ate, knowledge mocked them, and only the curse remained.  That primeval curse of desiring to know all things descended to all posterity, and at this instant you exemplify its existence.  Ah! you must humble your intellect if you would have it exalted; must be willing to be guided along unknown paths by other light than that of reason if you would be happy.  Well might Sir William Hamilton exclaim:  ’It is this powerful tendency of the most vigorous minds to transcend the sphere of our faculties, which makes a “learned ignorance” the most difficult acquirement, perhaps indeed the consummation of knowledge.’”

He sighed as he uttered these words; she said nothing; and, putting his hand gently upon hers, as they lay folded on the table beside her, he added sadly: 

“I had hoped that I could aid you; but I see my efforts are useless; you will not be guided nor influenced by others; are determined to wander on in ever-deepening night, solitary and restless!  God help you, Beulah!”

A shudder ran over her; but she made no reply.

He took her cold hands in his.

“And now we part.  Since the evening I first saw you with your basket of strawberries, I have cherished the hope that I might one day be more than a friend.  You have constantly shown me that I was nothing more to you; I have seen it all along, but still I hoped; and, notwithstanding your coldness, I shall continue to hope.  My love is too entirely yours to be readily effaced.  I can wait patiently.  Beulah, you do not love me now; perhaps never can; but I shall at least cling to the hope.  I shall not come again; shall not weary you with professions and attentions.  I know your nature, and even had I the power would not persuade you to give me your hand now.  But time may change your feelings; on this frail tenure I rest my hopes.  Meantime, should circumstances occur which demand the aid or counsel of devoted friendship, may I ask you to feel no hesitancy in claiming any assistance I can render?  And, Beulah, at any instant, a line, a word can recall me.  The separation will be very painful to me; but I cannot longer obtrude myself on your presence.  If, as I earnestly hope, the hour, however distant, should come when you desire to see me, oh, Beulah, how gladly will I hasten to you—­”