“Be comforted, I am here; thy wife, Florence, and thy little ones.  The grave has nought of us you hold so dear.  Believe, and we will come.  I whispered a song to your soul one night, and your fingers gave it words.  Farewell, I will come again; nay, I go not away from one I love so well.  ’T is Florence speaks to Herbert, her husband, from over the river called Death.”

The child looked wonderingly around, then wistfully to Dawn, who motioned her to the door, that she might join her companions.

“Is she always thus successful?” asked Herbert, after a long silence.

“No.  I have often known her to fail; but when the impression comes, it’s invariably correct.”

“Wonderful child.  How can you educate her, and yet have her retain this strange gift?”

“I obey my impressions, and allow her to play a great deal.  She cannot follow her class, therefore I teach her alone, short, easy lessons, and never tax her in any way, physically or mentally.”

“You must love her very much; I long to see more of her wonderful power.”

“You shall; but the hour is late, I must now send my children to bed and happy dreams.”

There was soon a cessasion of the voices, and cheerful “good-nights” echoed through the dwelling.  When all was still, Dawn came and sat by him, and long they talked of the land of the hereafter, and its intimate connection with this life, so fraught with pain and pleasure.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Tenderly Dawn looked upon her little group each day, and all the maternal instincts of her nature sprang to the surface, as she thought of their lives coming without their asking, forced upon them to be battled out through storm and fire.  Would that all parents might feel the responsibility of maternity, as that pure being did, who gave the richest, warmest current of her life to bear those children on.  “He who has most of heart, knows most of sorrow,” and many were the moments of sadness that came to Dawn, as she saw beings who were recklessly brought into life to suffer for the want of love and care.  But, though sorrowed, she never became morbid.  She lived and worked by the light that was given her, earnestly, which is all a mortal can do.

No season was complete to her which did not bring to her side Miss Bernard, who seemed the complement of her very self.  One warm summer evening when the air was sweet with the breath of roses, they sat together; earnest words flowing from soul to soul, and their natures blending like the parts of a sweet melody; Dawn’s high hope floating above the rich undertone of the deep life-tide on which the soul of her friend was borne.

“I have often wondered,” said Dawn, as she clasped the friendly palm more tenderly, “if my life will be as firmly rooted as your own; if the same rich calm will pervade my being.”

“If it be once full of agitation, it will surely be calm at last,” said Miss Bernard, in that firm tone which indicates that the storms of life are over, “for we are like the molten silver, which continues in a state of agitation until all impurities are thrown off, and then becomes still.  We know no rest until the dross is burned away, and our Saviour’s face is seen reflected in our own.”