Some lives are steady, with a continuous flow of discipline; other's convulsive and terrible in their wild upheavings. Slowly we learn the goodness of God's mercy, which sends the storm that whitens our garments, making them pure as snow. When our song should be praise, we fly here and there bemoaning our fate, crossing and re-crossing the path which leads into life, instead of walking therein, and following it out to its glorious goal.

Slowly we learn to take each day, and fill it with our best endeavor, leaving to-morrow to God. Life's experiences should teach us to find where our work begins and where it ends; but in our learning, how we project ourselves, and exalt our own little knowledge.

Like children, we meddle with our father's tools, and so retard the blessing. When we learn to work with God, then will our lives be in divine order, and flow deep and peaceful to the end. Our impatient movements cut the threads in the heavenly warp, and the garment which was to enfold us is delayed in its making.

It has been said, “Man is his own worst enemy,” and life's experience proves the truth of the assertion. But our final success is born of our present failures. It is in our efforts to ascend the stream, and thus rowing against the current, that we gain strength. Without resistance life would be a negation, and our running, sparkling river, become a stagnant pool.

Dawn brightened with the rising sun, or rather the cloud went by, leaving her in all her native brilliancy. Miss Weston spent her last day with her, and then went to her friends, with permission to write whenever she felt disposed, but with the caution not to say anything of her to Ralph or Marion.

“I think I must take one more look at the sea before winter closes in,” said Dawn to her father, one pleasant day when the air was still and the foliage bright with autumn hues.

“You will be obliged to go alone, then, for I have too many duties, to accompany you,” he said, and after a moment's pause, he asked, “Can you not wait a day or two?”

He read an answer in her pleading eyes, which said, “To-day, or not at all; I am in the mood, and must go now.”

“Go, then,” he said, “but do not allow the waves to steal you away.”

It seemed to him that she was slipping from his life; and indeed she was receding, but only to flow again more freely and strongly to him. As the tide which sweeps out and comes back, each time making a farther inroad upon the shore, so she was outflowing and inflowing, each tidal return beating deeper into his soul. We must flow out to the ocean, to the depth of living waters, if we would win a firmer abiding in the hearts of those we love.

Dawn walked upon the beach, the very spot where in childhood her ardent spirit first looked upon the sea. Idly, some might think, she wore the hours away, gathering white pebbles, and throwing them into the waters.

How long she continued thus, thinking of the past and musing of the future, she knew not. With her, one thought was uppermost, and that was of Ralph, whose letters to her had of late been warm with that spirit which sooner or later glows in every heart. She felt that to him she had a duty to perform which at the farthest could not long be deferred, and she knew that to meet it, required a strength and a singleness of purpose which would call into service all the philosophy she could command.

The deep silence that surrounded her was at length broken by the sound of a footstep; then a voice was heard, that seemed to her, in her half-entranced state, to come from the world of spirits. She started, as the voice sounded nearer. She knew whose voice it was, yet she only whispered to herself, “How strange,” and still gazed upon the sea, while a feeling pervaded her whole soul, akin to joy supernal.

“Dawn, Dawn; I have found you at last, and by the sea!”

Still she looked on the restless waters. There are moments in every life when speech fails, when words are powerless, when the soul can only express itself by silence. Such a moment came to Dawn.

Ralph took her hand in his own. She turned on him a gaze which seemed to bring her soul nearer to his own than ever before, and they walked slowly side by side. Then he told her that his sister and a friend were on the beach, a mile below; that they had all three come to take one more look at the sea, and to gather mosses.

“I knew not why I had such a strong desire to come here,” he said “but now see clearly what drew me in this direction. The feeling to come was overpowering, and I could not resist it.”

They walked, and conversed of all the past, until finally, the question of so momentous interest to both was approached, and Ralph pleaded as none but a lover can.

A long silence ensued. Hope and fear, doubt and uncertainty, came and went, and every moment seemed to him an age.

Dawn at length turned her face slowly towards him, and then raised her eyes to heaven, as if imploring its aid. The deep working of her spirit was plainly depicted upon her features; first the conflict, then the triumph.

“I must walk alone. I love you, Ralph, as I have never loved before; but I have a mission on earth; one which I cannot share with another. To its service I dedicate my life.”

She sprang towards him, threw her arms for an instant around his neck; then, tearing herself away, was gone before he could fully realize what had happened.

Slowly the reality of what had occurred came upon him, like a storm more terrible for its slow approach.

“O, that I had not seen her to-day,” he said, “for then hope would have been left me. Now, all is over. With me life must be gone through with mechanically, not lived earnestly; happiness must be relinquished, peace and rest prayed for.”

When Marion and Edith came in search of him, the crisis of his great grief was past, but the white face showed it was not the Ralph who left them.

“Why, you are ill; what has happened?” was his sisters' ejaculation.

“I came near sinking.”

“Were you bathing?” they both asked, together.

“In sorrow's sea,” he was about to say, but kept the words back, and appeared cheerful for their sakes.

“Then a wave did really come over you, Ralph?” said his sister, looking anxiously into his face.

“Yes, a strong one. I came near going under.”

They did not know that he spoke in correspondences, and accepted the literal explanation, which was true in the abstract.

“You look as though you had concentrated a dozen years into one day,” said Mr. Wyman, as he met Dawn at the door.

“I have had a very intense day.”

“You should have taken more time, child.”

This was her first unshared sorrow, and she longed to be away, alone. It seemed as though an ocean rolled, for the time, between herself and her father, and she hastily left him and sought her room. That night none but angels witnessed her struggles, and the peace which afterwards flowed into her troubled heart.

When morning came, with light and love in her face, she went below, and those who met her knew not the conflict of the night,—the great darkness,—so brilliant was her morning.

“I am going to the city, to-day, to make some purchases: my wardrobe needs replenishing.”

“Which announcement, I suppose, is an appeal to my purse,” remarked Mr. Wyman.

“I should put her on a shorter allowance, if I were you,” said his wife, “if she does not give us more of her company.”

“Are you aware that you have been roaming most of the time, Dawn, since the change in our home?” said her father, as he presented her the means for her purchases.

“Of course, having some one to take my place as housekeeper, I wish to enjoy my freedom a little.”

Mrs. Wyman looked troubled. Had she separated them? Was Dawn absenting herself on her account? A look of pain passed over her face, which she little knew the subject of her thoughts caught and interpreted.

“I am not going because you are here,” said Dawn at parting; “I am going because I feel impelled to. I am truly grateful to you, that your love came to bless my father's life. Do you believe me?”

“I do; and thank you from my heart for your words.” This was said with a depth of feeling that is always accompanied by the holy baptism of tears, and this was no exceptional occasion.

The first thought that came to Dawn, on her arrival in the city, was the dream of her childhood,—the pure white robe, and the damp, dark lanes.

“Perhaps my mission is close at hand,” she said, stepping aside to let an old man pass. She glanced at his sad, wrinkled face. It seemed as though other eyes were looking through her own into it. She took some money from her purse, and thrust it into his hand.

He closed his fingers mechanically over the bill; it was something more than money he needed.

“I am looking for-for-her,” he said, his eyes gazing on vacancy.

“Any one I can find for you?” inquired Dawn, touched by his gentle, childlike manner.

“Find her? Can you find Margaret? Why, she went away when she was a little gal; no, she has grown up-like you. But I guess she's lost; yes lost. O, my little Margy,—your own mammy, and your other mammy is dead, and I am all alone. Come, Margy, come,” he said, reaching forth his hands to Dawn.

“I am not Margy; but perhaps we can find her.” She drew nearer to him, and walked by his side down the street.

They passed along until the crowd grew more dense, and the sea of human forms, rushing and jostling, made her head swim.

What a variety; from childhood to age,—faces in which sorrow and hope were struggling; faces marked with lines and furrows; cheeks sunken by disease and many griefs; bright, glowing faces, fresh as flowers, before the dew had been parched by noon-day sun and heat. On, on they went,—the busy crowd, and the old man, and the maiden; he, looking at all, yet seeing none; she, gazing with restless vision, for what? for whom? How typical of life's great highway, on which we wander, looking for that which we know not; hoping, that out of the sea of faces, one will shine forth on us, to receive or give a blessing.

They passed spacious buildings, and came to those less pretentious in style. The crowd grew less dense, the apparel less showy and elegant; the low wooden houses contrasting strangely with the lofty edifices which they left behind. Little shops, with broken panes in every window; children ragged, idle, and brutal in their appearance, stirred the heart of the passer-by with a grief which no words could portray.

Dawn looked on them, and longed to gather them all into one fold of love and harmony. “O, guide me, Father, and help me to lead them to better lives,” was the earnest prayer of her soul.

“I am led hither to-day, that my sympathy with human want may be deepened,” she said to herself, while a thrill of joyous emotion pervaded her being, and faith laid hold more firm of the eternal anchor, which holds us fast, in the deep waters.

She was so indrawn that she did not notice the approach of a carriage, as they were on a street that ran at angles with the great thoroughfare, until a sharp cry from the old man aroused her to the state of affairs. He had been struck, and had fallen under the wheels. One moan, one convulsive motion of the features, and he was white as marble.

Before she had time to think or act, a shriek rent the air, and pierced the very soul of Dawn, for it was a wail from depths which few have fathomed. She turned to see from whom it came, and beheld a light female form bending low over the prostrate man. She was poorly clad, and her face bore every mark of the workings of great inward struggles. Two men raised the fallen one carefully, and carried him into a store near by. But it was only the clay they bore there; the soul had fled; gone to a world of a larger charity, and nobler souls than this.

“O, my father; my poor, old father,” broke from Margaret's lips, and her body swayed to and fro with its burden of grief.

Dawn took her hand; it was icy cold. Thus had the father and child met; one in the slumber of death; the other with the last sorrow of earth eating away what little of life remained in her. It was, truly, a pitiful scene, and touched all who witnessed it.

“Where shall we take him, miss?” said the police respectfully, to Dawn, whom he supposed, from her manifest interest, knew the parties.

“I do not know them, sir,” she replied, turning a look of deepest pity on Margaret.

“May I ask where your father shall be taken?” said Dawn tenderly, to Margaret.

“Taken? Why, home; no, it's a great way off; but don't bury him here in the wicked city. O, take him where the grass will wave over his grave, and the blue birds sing at early morn. O, do not bury him here,” she cried, clinging to Dawn with that confidence born of the soul when ushered, however strangely and suddenly, into the presence of truth and goodness.

“He shall be carried away to the green fields, and we will follow,” said Dawn, and stepping to a kindly-looking man in the crowd, she gave him orders to prepare a casket and shroud, and carry the body to the home of the poor woman who stood moaning beside her.

“Where shall we take him, Miss?” he said, stepping towards Margaret.

“Take him? I-I have no home. I was sent from my lodging this morning, because I had no money to pay. Take him anywhere, only let me go to his grave.”

Her pleading voice and look told that life had now but one more step for her. All was swept away; one hope after another had departed, and she stood alone in darkness.

Clarence Bowen, and his young and elegant wife, were riding in a part of the city whose broad avenues were overarched with trees all radiant with autumnal flames, when a hearse, followed by a single carriage, suddenly attracted the attention of the former.

Why was it that his whole frame shook, and the color left his face? His wife laughed and chatted by his side, and it was no uncommon sight in those streets to see a funeral pass. What was it, then, that so thrilled him? And his wife, too, she became alarmed as she glanced at his altered countenance.

From that lone carriage a face looked forth upon him. It looked with a vacant gaze. It was Margaret's face that, even she knew not why, stared upon Clarence. An electric chord seemed to connect the two,—the one with wealth and the vigor of life, the other with poverty and death.

“Why! what has come over you?” asked his wife. He was wandering again in the green woods, and stood once more by the innocent maiden's side. He heard not the voice that spoke to him, and she left him to his thoughts. The reins slackened in his grasp, and the horse walked at a slow pace, while his wife knew not of the bitter waters that were surging about his soul. Thus by our side do forms sit daily, while our thoughts glance backward and forward with lightning speed. At such times, the soul brings from the past its dead, to gaze on their lifeless forms, then turns and looks, with restless longing, towards the unknown, impenetrable future.

“Why! hus', I declare if you are not too stupid. I'll take the reins myself, if you do not arouse.”

She little knew how his soul was aroused then, and how great the conflict that was going on between self and conscience.

He struck the horse lightly, and they passed on while the little funeral cortege went slowly to the burial place for the poor and unknown dead.

It was a simple, and somewhat dreary place, which they reached at last. There were no cared-for flowers blossoming there, and the grass grew uncut around the nameless graves.

The old man with his spade had just finished his work. The last shovel-full of earth was thrown out when the hearse and carriage stopped at the gate, and the men bore the coffin slowly in, followed by Margaret and Dawn.

The angels must have wept had they seen the grief-prostrated form beside that grave, when the sound of the earth, as it fell on the coffin, came to the ear of the desolate-hearted Margaret.

Moan after moan broke forth, as they bore, rather than led her away to the carriage.

Homeless and friendless; where would the morrow find her? God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, and sent his ministering angel in his own good time. Dawn had decided, on the way to the grave, to take her home, and gave the hackman directions to drive to the station.

The rain drops began to patter on the pavement, the air grew chill and heavy, adding to the gloom of the occasion, and it was a relief to both to step into the cars, and see faces lighted up by hopes, going to life's experiences, rather than floating away from them.

There was no action in the dumb soul, which sat beside Dawn. She had passed beyond question and agitation of thought. It was that simple quiescence which every soul feels when the curtain of sorrow has fallen, even amid scenes of hope and happiness; but to one whom hope had long since forsaken, and life's bitter experiences been often repeated, there could be no projection of self, nought but the Now, divested of all earthly interest.

The train rushed past hills, through valleys, fields and woods, like a thing of life and intelligence, and stopped at the station, where a carriage was waiting. Mechanically Margaret followed, and Martin, at Dawn's gesture, lifted her into the carriage. The smoke of the receding train rose and curled among the trees, assuming fantastic shapes, while the shrill whistle caused the cattle to race over the fields, and the lithe-winged warblers to recede into the forests. Just so does some great din of the world, falling on our ears, send us to our being's centre for rest.