“I can show you a person whose imagination plays no truant pranks like this,” replied Mr. Allison.  “And this shall be at least one exception to your rule.”

“Name that person,” was the half-incredulous response.

“Your excellent wife,” said Mr. Allison.

For some moments Mr. Markland stood with his eyes cast down; then, lifting them to the face of the old man, he said: 

“The reference is true.  But, if she be not the only exception, the number who, like her, can find the best reward in the present, are, alas! but few.”

“If not found in the present, Mr. Markland, will it ever be found?  Think!”

“Never!” There was an utterance of grief in the deep tone that thus responded-for conviction had come like a quick flash upon his heart.

“But who finds it, Mr. Allison?” he said, shortly after, speaking with stern energy.  “Who comprehends the present and the actual? who loves it sufficiently?  Ah, sir! is the present ever what a fond, cheating imagination prefigured it?”

“And knowing this so well,” returned the, old man, “was it wise for you to build so largely on the future as you seem to have done?”

“No, it was not wise.”  The answer came with a bitter emphasis.

“We seek to escape the restlessness of unsatisfied desire,” said Mr. Allison, “by giving it more stimulating food, instead of firmly repressing its morbid activities.  Think you not that there is something false in the life we are leading here, when we consider how few and brief are the days in which we experience a feeling of rest and satisfaction?  And if our life be false—­or, in other words, our life-purposes—­what hope for us is there in any change of pursuit or any change of scene?”

“None—­none,” replied Mr. Markland.

“We may look for the good time coming, but look in vain.  Its morning will never break over the distant mountain-tops to which our eyes are turned.”

“Life is a mockery, a cheating dream!” said Mr. Markland, bitterly.

“Not so, my friend,” was the calmly spoken answer.

“Not so.  Our life here is the beginning of an immortal life.  But, to be a happy life, it must be a true one.  All its activities must have an orderly pulsation.”

Mr. Markland slowly raised a hand, and, pressing it strongly against his forehead, stood motionless for some moments, his mind deeply abstracted.

“My thoughts flow back, Mr. Allison,” he said, at length, speaking in a subdued tone, “to a period many months gone by, and revives a conversation held with you, almost in this very place.  What you then said made a strong impression on my mind.  I saw, in clear light, how vain were all efforts to secure happiness in this world, if made selfishly, and thus in a direction contrary to true order.  The great social man I recognised as no mere idealism, but as a verity.  I saw myself a member of this body, and felt deeply the truth then uttered by you,