I love my race, I honor my race; I believe that human nature, sublimated by Christianity, is capable of attaining nobler heights than pagan philosophers and infidel seers ever dreamed of.  And because my heart yearns toward my fellow-creatures, I want to clasp one hand in the warm throbbing palm of sinful humanity, and with the other hold up the lamp that God gave me to carry through this world, and so struggle onward, heavenward, with this generation of men and women.  I claim no clear Uriel vision, now and then I stumble and grope; but at least I try to keep my little lamp trimmed, and I am not so blind as some, who reel and stagger in the Maremme of crime and fashionable vice.  As a pilgrim toiling through a world of sinful temptation, and the night of time where the stars are often shrouded, I cry to those beyond and above me, ’Hold high your lights, that I may see my way!’ and to those behind and below me, ‘Brothers! sisters! come on, come up!’ Ah! these steeps of human life are hard enough to climb when each shares his light and divides his neighbor’s grievous burden.  God help us all to help one another!  Mecca pilgrims stop in the Valley of Muna to stone the Devil; sometimes I fear that in the Muna of life we only stone each other and martyr Stephen.  Last week I read a lecture on architecture, and since then I find myself repeating one of the passages:  ’And therefore, lastly and chiefly, you must love the creatures to whom you minister, your fellow-men; for if you do not love them, not only will you be little interested in the passing events of life, but in all your gazing at humanity, you will be apt to be struck only by outside form, and not by expression.  It is only kindness and tenderness which will ever enable you to see what beauty there is in the dark eyes that are sunk with weeping, and in the paleness of those fixed faces which the earth’s adversity has compassed about, till they shine in their patience like dying watch-fires through twilight.’  In some sort I think we are all mechanics—­moral architects, designing as apprentices on the sands of time that which, as master builders, we shall surely erect on the jasper pavements of eternity.  So let us all heed the noble words.”

She seemed talking rather to herself, or to the surging sea where her eyes rested, than to Sir Roger; and as he noticed the passionless pallor of her face, he sighed, and put his hands on hers.

“Come, walk with me on the beach, and let me tell you why I came back to New York, instead of sailing from Canada, as I once intended.”

A half hour elapsed, and Mrs. Andrews, who was sitting alone on the piazza, saw the governess coming slowly up the walk.  As she ascended the steps, the lady of the house exclaimed: 

“Where is Sir Roger?”

“He has gone.”

“Well, my dear!  Pardon me for anticipating you, but as I happen to know all about the affair, accept my congratulations.  You are the luckiest woman in America.”