There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions flood the reason at times, and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the busy scene goes on.

Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down, but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The soul feels new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.

This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful, and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these weary, yet hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for “light, more light.”

In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A sort of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of thought which gave her words at all times such force. All her best and most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which she had spoken, warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed, till their real meaning was lost to her.

“Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever,” she said, and her deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.

How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her thoughts were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side, before she knew that any one had entered.

“Why, Hugh!” was her exclamation of surprise.

“You are not at home, I see.”

He brought her back with those words.

“Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you,” and her glowing features endorsed the truth of her assertion.

“How far had you wandered?” he asked, his face full of glowing sympathy; “far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?”

“I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my shortcomings.”

“I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand,” he said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true earnest relation to each other.

“Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if all this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our words and have their meaning misinterpreted?”

“I question,” she continued, “if we should project our thought until mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek it.”

“Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares, to be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a creation to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest thoughts, even though they are cast away as nought, and trampled upon. There would be little richness or worth without this free offering, this giving of self for truth's sake, even though we know that we and our words may be spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my friend; you have been too long alone, and are consumed by your own thoughts.”

“I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak when we are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It is this fear that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We forget that truth can clear itself, and that principles are not dependent upon persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do, when the mist of doubt hangs over me.”

“Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and friendless in the chill air of neglect.”

“This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you to-night.”

“O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze over the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the towering hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even though its base is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when these inner, pivotal truths will be accepted?”

“We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when, or where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not be our hands that garner the harvest.”

“True. I was selfish and looking for grain.”

“Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often a difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which says in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient thoughts and motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do without the approving smile of man, and go on our way with none but God and angels to sanction our efforts. I, too, have hours of darkness. All souls are at times tossed on heaving waters, that they may rise higher than their weary feet can climb.”

“You have done me good to-day; but do not go,” she said, seeing him rise to leave.

“I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material matter, which I had nearly forgotten?”

“I am at your service.”

“Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last thing you would have imagined of me.”

“I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an idea into your head?”

“Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring together a strange medley,—counterparts, affinities, opposites, and every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you come and help us to-morrow?”

“I will. My love to Dawn and Miss Vernon.”

“Thank you,” and he passed out, leaving her bright and full of hope. She felt the transfusion of his strong life into her own, and neither herself nor her friend was the same as yesterday.

The day for the party was fair and balmy. Dawn and Miss Vernon rode to the green-house and purchased flowers for the occasion, and the home seemed like a fairy bower, so artistically and elegantly had they arranged the fresh and fragrant blossoms.

Miss Evans glided from room to room, placing a vase here, and a statuette there, as her feeling suggested, and what was her fancy was Hugh's, for their tastes were one, and their lives ran parallel in natural, innocent ways, never able to translate their feelings to another, but giving and enjoying each other more and more at every meeting.

Poor Mrs. Norton thought how pleasant it would be to her, to see a room full of beautiful things, pleasant faces, and elegant clothes: it would be such a contrast to her own dull life, which would be still more lonely but for the frequent visits of Mr. Wyman's family, and the substantial evidence often given by them that they did not forget the poor and needy. She arrayed herself neatly in her black alpacca, the gift of a friend; and when she looked in her little glass which hung above the table, just were it did thirty years ago, when her good husband was alive, a rush of better thoughts and feelings came over her. She lived over again the happy days of her married life, and almost thought she was making ready to walk by her husband's side to the little church on the hill. Then the scene changed, years rolled away, and it seemed but yesterday when she leaned over the coffin, and looked on the still, pale face that would never light her home again. Thoughts grew into words, and she said,—

“How little to keep me here. I have far more to recover by death than to lose; and somehow it seems as though it would not be long ere I go.”

She was not sad; far from it. The thought was pleasant to her, and folding her white handkerchief over her breast, she surveyed herself once more, and then putting on her shawl and bonnet, was soon on her way to Mr. Wyman's, thinking again and again how much good it would do her to see so many people together.

Mrs. Clarke wondered if Mrs. Simonds would be dressed in great style, for she had a wish not to be outdone in that direction, and yet possessed a sufficient degree of good sense to feel that overdress would be out of place at such a gathering; so she arrayed herself in a blue silk, not over-trimmed, and put pearls in her dark hair to match her jewels.

And thus, from different sections, arose a kind of magnetic life, as each individual's thoughts went out and centered there.

Dawn was dressed in white, with scarlet sash, and coral ornaments. She seemed like a ray of light flashing through darkness. Her soft, brown hair hung in wavy curls over her shoulders, and the involuntary exclamation was, “How beautiful,” as the pure light and brightness of her inner being shone through and over the external.

At dusk, the carriages began to appear, winding up the long avenue, which led to the house. Then came a few persons on foot, and in an hour all the bustle and stir attendant upon a crowd was heard in the hall, on the stairs, and in every room. The house was all aglow with life, and lines of care and sorrow were swept away by radiant smiles.

Masks were drawn over aching hearts; jealousies, envyings, and all strifes were put at bay, and the better natures of all were called forth, and responded, each to each. Palm grasped palm, that had not in the ordinary relations of life thrilled with contact for many years. Hearts that had grown cold and callous under slights, and chilling indifferences, were warmed anew in the social atmosphere which filled the whole house; and then the sound of music swept through the rooms, lifting all out of their narrowness into higher and better states.

Mr. Wyman had a word of cheer and love for all, and delicately brought such temperaments together as could best enjoy companionship, and for the time kept himself aloof from those he loved best, that others might partake of their genial natures.

“Can you tell me who that tall, graceful lady is?” asked Miss Vernon, before Mr. Wyman was aware that she was at his side.

“A Mrs. Hammond,” he replied, without looking at her.

“She is very elegant,” continued Miss Vernon.

“She is, externally.”

“What, not lovely in mind? Can it be that such an exterior covers unloveliness?”

“I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the elements of a true lady, to me.”

“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.

“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp enough, and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with heads.”

“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a most searching glance.

“For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the new.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”

“Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb the spirit of the occasion.”

“I am glad you do. Come this way.” He led her to a remote part of the room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.

“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.

A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a conversation by saying,—

“There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don't see many of them at church.”

This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character of a forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject to one of general interest.

Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard, and the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his parents to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those abstracted individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude, speaking to no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with an air of superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents' admiration,—at home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.

After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each accompanied with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a long and tedious sonata,—tedious, because ill-timed. On a suitable occasion it would have been grand and acceptable. Of course the music was wasted on the air, because it had only a mental rendering.

The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause. It did not come. Only a few murmured, “How very difficult,” while a sense of relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize that such elaborate performances should be reserved for a far different occasion. But we are slow in learning the fitness of things, and that everything has its proper time and place.

The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played several airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all with their light and graceful beauty.

Mr. Wyman then led his friend and guest, Mr. Temple, to the instrument. He touched it with a master hand. One forgot everything save melodious tones; forgot even that there was a medium, through which those tones were conveyed to the senses. The performer lost self, lost all save the author's idea, until, at length, the ecstatic sounds came soft and clear as light from a star. There was no intervention of self; his whole being was subordinate to the great creation—the soul of the theme. Eyes grew moist as the music floated on the air in one full, continuous strain. Hearts beat with new pulsations; hopes soared anew; sorrows grew less; life seemed electric, full of love; sharp lines, and irregularities of mind were touched, softened, and toned to harmony under the swelling notes, now soft, sweet, and dulcet; now broad, high, and upsoaring. No words broke the heavenly spell when the performer left the instrument, but each thrilled heart became a temple, in which only love and beauty dwelt.

There, in that holy atmosphere, a soul burst its fetters and went home. Old Mrs. Norton, who came with such glorious anticipations, sank back upon the pillow upon which she was resting, while listening to the soul-ravishing sounds, and died.

No feeling of awe came over the people assembled; but all felt as though they, too, had entered within the confines of the silent land.

Gently they raised her form as one would a child who had fallen asleep.

There, in the presence of the still, pale face, they parted, with better, truer natures than when they met.