yet undeclared,—­like a snow-white cloud with the sun behind it.  But I was given no solution of the rapturous mystery surrounding me,—­and—­granting my soul an absolute freedom, it could plunge no deeper than through the immensity of stars to immensities still more profound, there to dream and hope and wait.  For years I had done this,—­for years I had worked and prayed, watching the pageant of poor human pride and vanity drift past me like shadows on the shore of a dead sea,—­ succeeding little by little in threading my way through the closest labyrinths of life, and finding out the beautiful reasons of living;—­and every now and then,—­as to-night,—­I had felt myself on the verge of a discovery which in its divine simplicity should make all problems clear and all difficulties easy, when I had been gently but firmly held back by a force invisible, and warned, ’Thus far, and no farther!’ To oppose this force or make any personal effort to rebel against it, is no part of my faith,—­therefore at such moments I had always yielded instantly and obediently as I yielded now.  I was not allowed to fathom the occult source of my happiness, but the happiness remained,—­and when I retired to rest it was with more than ordinary gratitude that I said my usual brief prayer:—­For the day that is past, I thank Thee, O God my Father!  For the night that has come, I thank Thee!  As one with Thee and with Nature I gratefully take the rest Thou hast lovingly ordained.  Whether I sleep or wake my body and soul are Thine.  Do with them as Thou wilt, for Thy command is my joy.  Amen.

I slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the next day started on my journey in the brightest of bright summer weather.  A friend travelled with me—­one of those amiable women to whom life is always pleasant because of the pleasantness in their own natures; she had taken a house for the season in Inverness-shire, and I had arranged to join her there when my trip with the Harlands was over, or rather, I should say, when they had grown weary of me and I of them.  The latter chance was, thought my friend, whom I will call Francesca, most likely.

“There’s no greater boredom,”—­she declared—­“than the society of an imaginative invalid.  Such company will not be restful to you,—­it will tire you out.  Morton Harland himself may be really ill, as he says—­I shouldn’t wonder if he is, for he looks it!—­but his daughter has nothing whatever the matter with her,—­except nerves.”

“Nerves are bad enough,”—­I said.

“Nerves can be conquered,”—­she answered, with a bright smile of wholesome conviction—­“Nerves are generally—­well!—­just selfishness!”