“What is it like, Dawn?”

“Like a great Soul that has absorbed a million lives into its own, and cannot rest, it is so full of joy and sadness,” and she fixed her gaze more intently on the foam-crested waves.

It was the first time she had seen the ocean, and her father's keen enjoyment watching her enraptured, wondering gaze, afforded Miss Vernon another source of pleasure, aside from the wide expanse of beauty, which stretched from shore to horizon.

The three, according to Mr. Wyman's promise, had come to enjoy the pleasures and beauties of the seaside for a few weeks, as well as to see the different phases of human character which were daily thronging there.

It was intensely interesting to Miss Vernon to watch the child's eager interest in this glorious display of nature, and her strange insight into the character of the people with whom they were in daily contact.

There was one faint, gentle girl, about twenty years of age, who walked every evening alone, and whom Miss Vernon watched with great interest.

“I like her, too,” said Dawn, coming close to her teacher one evening, as she walked up and down on the beach.

“Who? and how do you know I like her.”

“Why, the lady there, walking in front of us. I feel you like her.”

“I am glad you do, Dawn. And now tell me why you love her.”

“I love her because she is white.”

“You mean that she is pure. I think she is.”

“Yes. I mean that and something else.”

“What?”

“In one of my lessons, you told me, that some objects were white, because they absorbed none of the rays, but reflected all.”

“You must explain your singular application-or in plain words, tell me how she reflects all, and takes none.”

“Why, because she don't take the life from people, but gives to them.”

“You know just what I mean-she throws it back to themselves purified by her light.” And the child's face was not her own, another's shone through it.

“Very good, Dawn, I hope we shall sometime know this pure young lady, and receive a brightness from her,” said Miss Vernon, talking more to herself than the strange child who was dancing at that moment in time to the waves.

“According to your scientific symbol, I suppose we shall see some black people here before we go,” she said laughingly to the child.

“Yes, there are plenty of those everywhere. They take all the light, and give none out. But see, Miss Vernon, the lady is sitting on a rock and weeping, may I go to her?”

“Would it not be an intrusion?”

“Yes, sometimes, but not now. May I go? Papa would let me, I think.”

“You must ask him. I had rather not give you such a liberty.”

“Then I will,” and she flew at the top of her speed to the bank where he was sitting.

“May I go and see that lady out on the rock, papa?”

“Why? Do you know her?”

“No, but I must go,” and as she spoke Dawn's eyes had that strange look which betokened an inner vision.

“Yes, daughter, go,” was his answer, and she bounded from his side, and was close to the weeping stranger, in an instant.

Her father watched her with the deepest interest, and almost wished himself within hearing.

She did not approach the stranger quietly, but with one bound sprang and threw her arms around her neck, saying in a voice deeper and stronger than her own:

“Pearl, I am here. Weep no more!”

The young girl thrilled, but not with terror, for to her such things were of frequent occurrence. Yet the proof to her now of the presence of the unseen was of such a positive nature, more tangible than she had felt for months, that all her accumulated doubts gave way, and the pure waters of faith flowed over her soul.

Here, among strangers, where none knew her name, or her grief, had the voice of her loved one spoken. Why should she doubt? Why should thousands, who have every day a similar experience?

She rose from her position, and taking the hand of the child, which thrilled strangely to her touch, walked towards the house.

“Do you love the sea?” she asked of the little stranger.

“O, ever so much. I mean to ask papa to live here forever,” and she looked enthusiastically towards the receding waves.

“Do you live here?” asked Dawn.

“No; my home is far away. I come here to rest.”

“Was that what made you weep? Was you weary?”

“Yes, dear. My soul is very weary at times.”

“Is the sea weary when it moans?” and she looked wonderingly over the wide expanse of changing waves.

“I think it is; but I must leave you now; I see your friends are looking for you.”

But Dawn would not let her pass on. She held her hand tighter, and said:

“This is my papa, and this is my teacher.”

“I hope my child has not annoyed you, Miss,” said Mr. Wyman, as he gazed on the face of the beautiful stranger before them.

“Far from it, sir. She has comforted me. Children, under ordinary circumstances, are ever welcome, but when they bring proof-”

She stopped, fearful that she might not be understood.

“I comprehend it, Miss. I saw another life than her own in her eyes, else I should not have permitted her to have gone to you.”

“I thank you both,” said the gentle girl, and bowing gracefully, she went towards the house.

“Is she not white, Miss Vernon?” asked Dawn, exultingly, when the stranger was out of hearing.

“Yes, she is beautiful and pure.”

“I hope she was comforted, for her face has a look of sorrow, deeper than we often see on one so young,” remarked Mr. Wyman, who had been enlightened by Miss Vernon on Dawn's strange application of soul-science.

“Yes, she was, papa. Some one in the air made me speak and call her name. It's 'Pearl'; is n't it pretty? O, see those clouds, papa,” she cried, with thrilling ecstasy; “I hope they will look just like that when I die.”

“You are weary now, darling; we must go in,” said her father, watching with jealous eyes the snow-white and crimson clouds which lay on the horizon, just above the foaming waves.

“There are some people here from L—,” said Miss Vernon, as she and Mr. Wyman sat together on the piazza the next morning, watching the changing sea.

“Ah, who are they; any of our friends?”

“I have never seen them at your house. Two ladies,—a Mrs. Foster and sister. Do you know them?”

“I know that there are such people in L—. When did they arrive? I have not seen them.”

“Last evening; but you do not look particularly pleased. Will they disturb you?”

“I do not mean they shall, although they are busybodies, and know every one's affairs better than their own.”

“So I judged by their conversation last evening, which I could not but overhear, as they talked so loud, their room being next to mine, and their door open.”

“Of whom were they speaking?”

“Of a Mr. and Mrs. Deane. I think I have heard you allude to them.”

“I have; nice good people too. As usual, I suppose they were charging them with all sorts of foibles and misdemeanors.”

“I heard one of them assert that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had parted, and that she had gone to live with her parents.”

“It cannot be! Howard Deane is too just and honorable for anything of that nature; but if they have, there are good reasons for it. I think I will write him this very morning, and urge him to come and bring his wife to this beautiful spot for a few days. Will you lend me your folio, Florence? Mine is up two flights of stairs, and I would really like to be waited on this morning.”

She flew to her room, and returned and placed it before him, and then went in search of Dawn.

Selecting a delicate sheet from its orderly arranged contents he commenced,—

“My Dear Friend Howard.

“Come and spend a few days in this loveliest of—”

At this point a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and another placed over his eyes.

“I am here;” said a well-known voice, “so throw aside pen and paper. We will commence in a better way.”

“Why? when? where did you come from, and how came you to select this place?”

“I came this morning; arrived ten minutes ago from L—. Did not 'select' this place; the place drew me here. Now I have answered all your interrogatories, may I ask you how long you have been here, and why you did not let me know you were coming?”

“Two days only. I should have told you, but did not suppose you could leave for a moment, knowing the pressure of your business. But how is your wife? She is here of course?”

His averted face did not reveal the look of pain which passed over it, as he replied:

“She is not well, and went home with her mother.”

“So you was lonely and betook yourself to this scene of life to pass the hours away. You could not have chosen a better place. I hope the period of your stay here is not limited to a few days.”

“Instead of that it is indefinite.”

The tone of his voice was too sad to be mistaken, and Mr. Wyman began to think that there might be some truth in the rumor which Florence had heard.

He glanced at Mr. Deane's face, and read all he had failed to see when he first met him.

“I hope nothing has occurred to mar your pleasure while here; at least nothing but what the waves will wash away?”

“The sea is a good place for the soul-weary, as well as for the light of heart. I cannot, however, leave my burden here. I am, indeed, very sad, Hugh. Are you much engaged? If not, we will take a walk together,” he said, in tones which plainly implied a need of a companion like Mr. Wyman.

“I have nothing to do, now you have arrived and saved me the laborious effort of writing to you.”

“Then you wished me here?”

“I did. My thoughts went out to you this morning. I felt that you needed a change.”

“I do indeed;” and they walked together for awhile, then sat beneath the shade of a tree, whose long outstretched branches seemed to wave benedictions on their heads.

“I need change, but human sympathy most. Mabel has gone from me. It is not a corporal separation only, but one of soul and heart.”

“Mabel gone! Is it, indeed, true? But the separation cannot last; she will surely return to your love and protection. Howard, I am glad you are h; ere. Some unseen power must have brought you to this place, where you can unburden your grief, and take better and clearer views of the case.”

“Then you think she will come again to me?”

“Certainly; and you will both be stronger for the temporary separation.”

“I could bear it better were I not so sensitive to the opinion of the world.”

“You must rise above that. There is no growth to him who, seeking the new, fears to lose his grasp on the old. These backward glances retard the pilgrim on his way. Do what you feel to be right, and care for no man's words or opinions.”

“I wish I had your strength, Hugh.”

“I think you were sent here to me to be strengthened. God's hand is in the cloud as well as the sunshine, and I know He will work good from the seeming evil that encompasses you.”

“Your words cause me at least to hope.”

“This separation will work good for both of you.”

“I felt myself, when I found my love doubted and my truthfulness questioned, that it would be best for us.”

“Then you favored it?”

“I did.”

“I am glad it was so. You will each have an opportunity to know yourselves, and how much you are to each other. When together, words take the place of thoughts, while absence ever kindles the flame of holy love, and by its light we see our own short-comings, and our companion's virtues. Were I you, I should look on this as one of the greatest opportunities of my life to test my heart's true feelings towards one whose affection had grown cold, or rather whose understanding had become clouded; for I doubt not her heart is as warm as when you led her to the altar. Like yonder receding wave, her love will return to you again, while to her restless soul you must be as firm as this rocky coast.”

“Woman's love,” he continued, “is stronger, mightier than man's. It is no argument against their devotion that they are changeable. So is this ocean. Each hour a different hue comes upon its surface, but the depth is there. Thus is woman's soul full of varied emotions; the surface play is sometimes dark, at others reflecting the blue of the heavens above. Yes, they are deeper, higher than ourselves, and every day's experience attests to the fact of their superior delicacy and nicer perceptions. Their keen insight into daily matters, their quick sense of everything pertaining to religious and social life, are to me proofs of their fine qualities.”

“But their inconsistency at times wars with your assertions.”

“No; it is sterner stuff that reasons most; they are nicer in their perceptions, and feel instinctively their way into questions over which we work and solve alone by long reasoning.”

“I believe it is so.”

“Then you have advanced one step. We cannot appreciate woman too highly. That many do foolish things is no proof that many are not wise and good, bearing crosses day after day which would make you and I ready to lie down and die-they ever do great things, either good or bad, and men, I hope, will some day place her image next to his maker's, and look upon it as to him the holiest and highest on earth-the best gift of God.”

“Why, Hugh, you are wild upon this subject.”

“I am awake, and hope I shall never slumber.”

“Your words have given me rest, and stirred my best emotions. I will write to Mabel to-night. But yesterday and I felt that all women were as fickle as these waters. I am changed, and your remarks have caused me to think differently.

“I have not changed your mind, I have only brought some of your better feelings to the surface.”

“And what is that but change?”

“It may be, that it is. Do you not see that something mightier than yourself brought you here, where your morbid feelings will pass away,—though I do not wonder that you felt as you did, neither can I blame you. The human soul has many sides, and turns slowly to the light.”

“If I had your penetration, I could bear the discords of life.”

“We must learn not only to bear them, but to gather wisdom from their teachings. If we cannot grow under to-day's trial, we surely cannot under to-morrow's.”

“I begin to feel that we shall both be better for this estrangement.”

“You will, and come together, on a higher plane. Married people live in such close relations that each becomes absorbed by the other, and then having nothing fresh to give, what was once attraction becomes repulsion. I see these things so plainly myself that the criticism, and may be, censure of a multitude, jealous of personal freedom, affects me no more than the passing breeze. I know that if I stand upon a mount and behold a beautiful scene beyond, that it is there, although the people below may declare with positiveness that it is not. A man knows nothing of the value of his wife who sees not other women and learns their thoughts.”

“True. I have felt for a long time that I needed a fresh mind with which to hold converse, and my seeking one, although accidental, has brought about this state of things.”

“And that person?”

“Was Miss Evans.”

“I remember; and the evening, I asked you to call and leave the magazine. Little did I think of such a result, which I should regret, perhaps, did I not fully believe that all things are ordered and arranged for our best good. Long and prayerfully I have studied this question, so vital and so closely allied to our best interests. I could not gleam even a ray of truth did I not live above the crowd and fearlessly pursue my own way. I see no escape from our thraldom, but through soul expanse, and this is produced only through soul liberty. I loved my Alice most when I was learning her through others; I am still learning and loving her each day, through my child and our friend Miss Vernon. With all our laws, we have and ever have had haunts of vice. Will the emancipation of soul increase their number? I think not. If men and women can be brought together on loftier planes we shall not have these excresences. The sexes need to be purely blended; they will approach each other, and it is for society to say how. Block up harmless social avenues and we shall have broad roads to destruction. I know husbands and wives who are consuming, instead of refreshing each other's lives. Yes, Howard, this is your great opportunity to take your position and draw your wife up to it. Life will be a new thing to you, and all of us who can accept these truths. Our present forms and ceremonies hold us apart, and there is scarcely a ripple of spontaneity upon life's surface. The highest hours, and those most productive of good, are when two souls converse and reflect each other's innermost states.”