When I came out once more, I knew better what the stars meant.  They looked to me now as if they knew all about death, and therefore could not be sad to the eyes of men; as if that unsympathetic look they wore came from this, that they were made like the happy truth, and not like our fears.

But soon the solemn feeling of repose, the sense that the world and all its cares would thus pass into nothing, vanished in its turn.  For a moment I had been, as it were, walking on the shore of the Eternal, where the tide of time had left me in its retreat.  Far away across the level sands I heard it moaning, but I stood on the firm ground of truth, and heeded it not.  In a few moments more it was raving around me; it had carried me away from my rest, and I was filled with the noise of its cares.

For when I returned home, my sister told me that Old Rogers had called, and seemed concerned not to find me at home.  He would have gone to find me, my sister said, had I been anywhere but by a deathbed.  He would not leave any message, however, saying he would call in the morning.

I thought it better to go to his house.  The stars were still shining as brightly as before, but a strong foreboding of trouble filled my mind, and once more the stars were far away, and lifted me no nearer to “Him who made the seven stars and Orion.”  When I examined myself, I could give no reason for my sudden fearfulness, save this:  that as I went to Catherine’s house, I had passed Jane Rogers on her way to her father’s, and having just greeted her, had gone on; but, as it now came back upon me, she had looked at me strangely—­that is, with some significance in her face which conveyed nothing to me; and now her father had been to seek me:  it must have something to do with Miss Oldcastle.

But when I came to the cottage, it was dark and still, and I could not bring myself to rouse the weary man from his bed.  Indeed it was past eleven, as I found to my surprise on looking at my watch.  So I turned and lingered by the old mill, and fell a pondering on the profusion of strength that rushed past the wheel away to the great sea. doing nothing.  “Nature,” I thought, “does not demand that power should always be force.  Power itself must repose.  He that believeth shall—­not make haste, says the Bible.  But it needs strength to be still.  Is my faith not strong enough to be still?” I looked up to the heavens once more, and the quietness of the stars seemed to reproach me.  “We are safe up here,” they seemed to say:  “we shine, fearless and confident, for the God who gave the primrose its rough leaves to hide it from the blast of uneven spring, hangs us in the awful hollows of space.  We cannot fall out of His safety.  Lift up your eyes on high, and behold!  Who hath created these things—­that bringeth out their host by number!  He calleth them all by names.  By the greatness of His might, for that He is strong in power, not one faileth.  Why sayest thou, O Jacob! and speakest, O Israel! my way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God?”