the tempest, whose false sublimity you so much admired.  There is nothing startling and brilliant in this work; but it is a good and a great work, and it will go on silently and efficiently until not a trace of the desolating storm can be found.  In the still atmosphere, unseen, but all-potent, lies a power ever busy in the work of creating and restoring; or, in other words, in the commonplace work of doing good.  Which office would you like best to assume—­which is the most noble—­the office of the destroyer or the restorer?”

I lifted my eyes again, and saw men busily engaged in blotting out the traces of the storm, and in restoring all to its former use and beauty.

Builders were at work upon the house which had been struck by lightning, and men engaged in repairing fences, barns, and other objects upon which had been spent the fury of the excited elements.  Soon every vestige of the destroyer was gone.

“Commonplace work, that of nailing on boards and shingles,” said the old man; “of repairing broken fences; of filling up the deep foot-prints of the passing storm; but is it not a noble work?  Yes; for it is ennobled by its end.  Far nobler than the work of the brilliant tempest, which moved but to destroy.”

The scene changed once more.  I was back again from the land of dreams and similitudes.  It was midnight, and the moon was shining in a cloudless sky.  I arose, and going to the window, sat and looked forth, musing upon my dream.  All was hushed as if I were out in the fields, instead of in the heart of a populous city.  Soon came the sound of footsteps, heavy and measured, and the watchman passed on his round of duty.  An humble man was he, forced by necessity into his position, and rarely thought of and little regarded by the many.  There was nothing brilliant about him to attract the eye and extort admiration.  The man and his calling were commonplace.  He passed on; and, as his form left my eye, the thought of him passed from my mind.  Not long after, unheralded by the sound of footsteps, came one with a stealthy, crouching air; pausing now, and listening; and now looking warily from side to side.  It was plain that he was on no errand of good to his fellowmen.  He, too, passed on, and was lost to my vision.

Many minutes went by, and I still remained at the window, musing upon the subject of my dream, when I was startled by a cry of terror issuing from a house not far away.  It was the cry of a woman.  Obeying the instinct of my feelings, I ran into the street and made my way hurriedly towards the spot from which the cry came.

“Help! help! murder!” shrieked a woman from the open window.

I tried the street door of the house, but it was fastened.  I threw myself against it with all my strength, and it yielded to the concussion.  As I entered the dark passage, I found myself suddenly grappled by a strong man, who threw me down and held me by the throat.  I struggled to free myself, but in vain.  His grip tightened.  In a few moments I would have been lifeless.  But, just at the instant when consciousness was about leaving me, the guardian of the night appeared.  With a single stroke of his heavy mace, he laid the midnight robber and assassin senseless upon the floor.