Gladly would Dawn have spent many days with Basil and his sister, but her life was too active to allow her to tarry long in one place. On the evening of the day, the events of which were narrated in our last chapter, a note was placed in her hand from Mrs. Austin, stating that she was ill and needed her presence.

“You cannot go before to-morrow,” broke in both sister and brother, at once.

“We must make much of this evening,” said Beatrice.

“And spend it as though it was our last together; for life's conditions are so uncertain,” remarked Basil, in that far-off tone, in which he often spoke.

“We may have many experiences before another meeting, yet I hope we shall come together again soon.”

“How shall we spend our evening?” said Miss Bernard to her brother, yet looking at Dawn.

“Naturally. Let it take its own course.” Their eyes at that instant rested on Dawn, whose features glowed with a heavenly light and sweetness.

“It is a trance symptom,” said Basil. “Let us keep ourselves passive.”

The light of the room seemed to vibrate with life, and their bodies to be so charged with an electric current so etherial that it seemed that their spirits must be freed from all earthly hold. And then there came a calm over all. The features of Dawn seemed to change to those of one so familiar to them in their early days, that they started with surprise.

“I was on earth known as Sybil Warner,” said a voice which seemed not that of Dawn, and yet her vocal organs were employed to speak the name.

“Sybil Warner!” exclaimed Basil, white with emotion, and turning to his sister, whose palor equaled his own, “Have you ever spoken that name to her?” he asked, pointing to the upturned face of Dawn.

“Never! I am equally astonished and interested with yourself.”

“Shall we question her,—the spirit?” But before Basil could reply the spirit spoke:

“You were not aware, I know, that I passed to the spirit-land a few years ago; and for that reason, and many others, I come to give you a test. The mention of my name must have been a surprise to you, for never in the earth-life, did I meet this lady whose organism I now employ to speak to you. You would know of my life, after I withdrew from the world of fashion. At some other time it shall be given you; enough for the present, that I became world-weary, and, possessing what is called second-sight, drifted through life, caring naught for the heartlessness around me. The life which makes up three-fourths of the so called happiness of humanity I could not adopt as my own; therefore I was alone, and a wanderer. I was, of course, called strange and weird. What cared I, when every-day glimpses of the larger life were given me,—that life which I was so soon to enter upon. One humble spirit stands by me here, whose name is Margaret, and sends love and gratitude to the beautiful being through whom I now address you.

“Friends of my youth, always so good and true to me, I come to mingle my life with yours, and to grow strong with you in good and holy purposes. We of the upper air, do not live alone; we need your life, as well as you do ours. This communion is as ancient as time, and will endure throughout eternity. Volumes could not tell of the broken households united through this light. Search for its hidden treasures; they are worthy of untiring study. Its glory will not fall into your life; it must be worked out by your own efforts and found within your own experience. Thus it will become a part of your immortal self, and help you on your heavenly way. The skeptic cannot sit and call us who have thrown off the mortal, by words alone, for only in answer to deep and heartfelt desire do we come and hold communion with our earthly friends. They who seek shall find.

“Of the spiritual condition of those who enter this state of existence, I can only say to you now that it is identically the same after what you call 'death,' as before; neither higher nor lower. Progress and happiness here, is as it is with you, dependent upon personal effort. We of the spirit-world have rest and unrest, hope and doubt, according as our states, conditions and surroundings vary. One of my strongest purposes has been to identify myself to you, my friends, to-night. I have succeeded beyond a doubt; none can exist in your minds of my identity-my self, for you have never breathed my name to this mortal. Again will I come to you and tell you of our lovely world which we enjoy, each according to individual development. I dwell in peace. Peace I leave with you. Farewell.”

Dawn passed her hand over her brow, as though trying to recall a vanished thought, and slowly came to her normal condition, while her face shone with a light most beautiful to behold.

“Were you conscious of what has transpired?” asked Miss Bernard.

“Yes; and yet so absorbed in another life, that my own spirit seemed floating, yielding to another's will and heart pulsations. This is imperfect, I know, as an explanation, but it is the best I can give.”

“It is something which cannot be explained,” said Basil, and she knew by these words that he fully comprehended her.

O, soul, how thou dost relieve the labor of the mind, seeing with finer vision into the centre of life, and there beholding the countless workings of the inner being. What an atom of our self do we exhibit in our little sojourn here. Those of limited sight say we are thus and so, and pass on. Others measure us by themselves, and call us dull, or lacking vital life, ignorant of the fact that they each take all they know how to appropriate, of our quality. A lifetime would give them no more, if their receptive states did not change.

“This experience has given our life a new sweetness,” said Basil, seating himself by Dawn. “We have long believed in these things, but have never had such proof of their truthfulness as to-night. We need not tell you how happy you have made us, or how much we shall always enjoy your coming; for we enjoy you personally, aside from this thrilling power which your organization embodies. I, too, have experienced this light, and know well the strange thrill which comes over us, when we meet those who are akin in soul, and assimilate with our mental and spiritual natures.”

“And how the depth is sounded, when we are brought in contact with those who are antagonistic,” said Dawn.

“I presume that those who disharmonize us, aid us to higher states, for they force us out in search of something better. The divine economy is at work in every phase of life, and our growth of soul is often greater in our night of sorrow than in our day of joy; or rather, we reach forth deeper and stronger after the true life, when the cloud is upon us, than when the sun shines brightly on our path, just as the tree extends its roots farther into the ground, when rocked and swayed by the tempest.”

“Yet the sunshine of happiness matures the leaves and branches. I have had much sunshine,” said Dawn, speaking the words slowly and tenderly.

“I would that the storms might pass over you, but in the human lot I know they must come.”

She looked into his eyes, and they appeared so like Ralph's just then that tears came to her own, and she could not force them back.

“This emotion is not all your own,” said Mr. Bernard.

Dawn looked up inquiringly.

“He is here-Ralph, and too often for your good and his own.”

A flush came over her face.

“I mean no harm,” he continued. “It is true that he will weaken you by too much emotion, which was ever a large component of his beautiful and trusting nature. Ralph must put aside his deep tenderness, and come less often, and then he will bring you more strength when he does come to you.”

“But what if he never left me, and never can, Mr. Bernard?”

“Then you must mingle with those who are his opposite, those who can strengthen him through you.”

“I never thought of that before.”

“Nor I, Miss Wyman. It is the impression of the moment, but none the less true for that.”

“I feel its truth, and will act upon it; thus a portion of his development will come through my associations, be drawn up through the earthly conditions that surround me. How little we know of the other life, or of this.”

“The two are so conjoined that a knowedge of one cannot but bring with it some truth concerning the other.”

The conversation had been of so much interest that they had not noticed how far into the night it had been protracted, until a sudden glance at the clock led Beatrice to suggest that Dawn might wish for rest preparatory for her journey on the morrow.

“How kind of you to come so soon, Dawn,” said Mrs. Austin, excitedly clasping her to her heart. “I am so sad, and only you can relieve me.”

“What is it? Are you or any of your family ill?”

“No, no. Something worse, much worse to me. Sit by me while I tell you.”

Dawn took the seat, while in hurried, trembling tones, her friend related her story.

“You know my sister Emily, Mrs. Dalton. Well, two days ago I received a letter from her, stating that she had left her husband, and was coming to see me a few days to tell me all, and then go through the world alone.”

“Is that all? I thought something fearful had happened,” said Dawn, looking calmly on her friend.

“All? Can anything be worse than that? Think of the disgrace to us;” and Mrs. Austin burst into a flood of tears.

“It's no disgrace if they could not harmonize, but the very highest and best thing they could do.”

“O, Dawn; but what will the world come to, if all the married people flare up at every little inharmony, and separate?”

“You are not the judge of your sister's course. You do not know what she may have passed through. She knows best, and this is her work alone, her cross. I do not advocate that parties should separate, until all means for a harmonious life have been tried. Then, if they find there can be no assimilation, it is far better that they should part, rather than they should live a false life. The world in its different stages of progress, has been sustained thus far and will continue to be. We are in the midst of a social revolution, and there must be many separations, and changes innumerable in every form and condition of life. Truth and error must be divorced, and whatever does not affinitize in mind and matter, in the moral or spiritual world, must be separated. This is the inevitable result of God's law, and can no more be set aside than any other which he has ordained. You speak of 'disgrace,' but to me that would come only, when, after employing every possible means to live a full, harmonious life, united, and it is found an impossibility, the two continue to live together despite the decree of God, made manifest in their nature, that it is sinful for them to do so. This all is within the province of that 'higher law' which many profess to contemn, but to which all must sooner or later submit.”

“I wish you could talk with Edward; he holds nearly the same views. Will you stay with me a few days, until my sister comes, for I have not strength to bear this?”

“I will; but would it be agreeable for her to see any one here? She naturally desires to see you alone.”

“She loves you, and said in her letter, 'if I could see Dawn, or Mr. Wyman, I think I could gain strength.'”

Dawn had no opportunity to escape, for Mrs. Dalton arrived that afternoon, unexpectedly, and before night had opened her soul to her. It was while Mrs. Austin supposed she had retired for the night, that Mrs. Dalton sought the room of Dawn; for the heart, while passing ordeals, seeks another to share or to lessen its woe.

“I will in a few words tell you all,” she said to Dawn. “Twelve years ago I was married, to please my parents and friends, to one toward whom I never felt the thrill which should glow through all our being in the presence of one whom we take into so close a relation. Between us there never can exist the conjugal relation, for we are to each other but as brother and sister. Long have I struggled with my sense of duty and moral obligation, and the struggle has done me good. I have found that my life could not come into fulness, or my being unfold its powers while a relation not of my own choosing was maintained.

“Henry has a good and fine nature, one worthy of the warmest love of some woman. We are both on the same mental plane, yet he has not the strength to brave the world's opinion. In my atmosphere he seems to see as I do, and to realize that we should be far better apart,—better physically and spiritually,—but when he leaves me he becomes weak and distrustful of himself. I cannot say that I regret my experience; but something within tells me that it has come to an end. We shall both suffer; I feel it; no ordeal of the soul is passed without it, but my life will be far better alone, far better. Now can you give me any strength or sympathy? for I know well that I must walk through life with but little of human friendship. My act is frowned upon by all my relatives, which, of course, only serves to raise my individuality to a higher point, and throws me still deeper into self. I have no children, and can easily take care of myself. Does my decision seem rash or impulsive to you?”

“Far from it. My warmest sympathies are with you, and with all who, seeing the right, pursue it regardless of what the world may say or do. A deep, conscientious regard for the best interests of the two most intimately concerned in such a step, is all that is required. You are under inspiration now, and what you have done will be seen to be best for your individual lives. You have left him because there was wanting that heart reciprocity, which is the vital current of conjugal life. The experience was necessary for you, else it would not have been given you. Look on it as such, as no loss to you or to him, and life with its thousand harmonies will flow to you. If the married could but see that the moment they are not in spiritual harmony they are losing life and strength, and in order to avoid the loss would seek a change of some kind,—such change as their interior wisdom may determine,—earth would be a paradise to-day, and family relations what God designed they should be. But it is usually the case, that, instead of a mutual discernment of this truth, one only perceives it, and it follows that it is best the evil should for a time be borne, for the one of smaller vision would only be filled with jealousy and unrest at the suggestion even, of a change. There are innumerable families that this very moment should change their relations. Old elements should be superseded by new; conditions which have surrounded them so long that they have become powerless for good and powerful for evil, so far as physical and spiritual strength is concerned, should be radically changed. We need a revolution in social life, an amendment to the constitution which governs society. Have this right, and all will be right,—politics, religion, and all else. Slowly these truths are being unfolded to the comprehension of the human mind. Some have seen them for years; and they whose views of life have been broadened and deepened by the adoption of a spiritualistic faith, long since became familiar with them. Such are now catching glimpses of the coming light, and have the assurance that ere long will arise the perfect day.”

“You have done me good, Miss Wyman; and now there is but one person to whom I wish to speak my thoughts, and that is-”

“My father.”

“You are right; for he can give me what I so much need-moral strength.”

“I think your next step will be to return with me,” said Dawn, in that cordial and positive manner which made it seem as though there was really no other step, or at least that it was the first to be taken. The next day Mrs. Dalton and Dawn left together, and a feeling of relief came to Mrs. Austin, for outside of her own judgment and prejudice, she seemed to feel that it would do her sister good. Thus are we often obliged to leap mental barriers, lay aside preconceptions, and accept what does not strictly accord with our reason, for the soul has larger orbits than those of mere mental states.

It was almost as though they had never met before, so delightful was the re-union between Dawn and her father. Would that all might learn how closely we may come together by bodily separation, paradoxical as this may seem at first thought.

“I have been very happy, father, while away, and have brought a needy soul to you for life,” said Dawn, nestling close to that strong, protecting form, and gazing into his eyes, as though she would infuse his being with her own life.

“I am glad you have been happy, and that your happiness does not abate, but increase by change of states. Dawn, my own darling, I saw your mother last night in my dreams. She brought to you a blue mantle, which signifies rest and protection, a rest not of this world. She enfolded you in it, and as you passed through the dark, sunless places of earth, the mantle grew brighter and brighter, until its color almost dazzled the human eye. There were many who could not gaze upon it, and turned away. Others stood until the blinding effect passed, and then followed you with their gaze. This mantle of blue signifies inspiration, as well as rest. They whose inner light is strong, will look upon the truths you utter, and appreciate them, while others, less strong, will turn away, blinded by their brilliancy, and repair again to their old and worn ideas. Blue is of heaven; its quality is not of earth. May it never fade while this mantle enwraps my child.” Mr. Wyman remained silent for some moments, and then remarked: “Now, if you will bring Mrs. Dalton, whom I have not seen for many years, I shall be happy to meet her.”

Dawn found her weeping bitterly, and folded her arms about her until the sobs ceased.

“I am not presentable, had I not better wait and see him to-morrow?” she said, leaning her head upon Dawn's bosom.

“No; go now. This is just the time for you. You need his counsel and sympathy most, now. Come,” and she led her like a child into his presence.

He did not meet her with formality, but took her hand, and led her to a seat, then sat beside her. Dawn left, and soon found her mental poise.

Words grew into sentences, thought leaped after thought, and newly perceived truths came to the mind of Hugh with strange and wonderful rapidity, as he sought to calm and console the tempest-tossed mind. A blessing descended on the communion, and when they parted, one could not tell which face shone the brightest.

Mrs. Dalton laid down that night with stronger purposes of life, and a deeper conviction that the step which she had taken was the right one, though all before her was dark and unknown.

“Give all to her that she calls forth, and inspires in you, for that is her right,” said Mrs. Wyman, when her husband told her of his interview with Mrs. Dalton.

How many wives of the present day are deep and strong enough to utter such sentiments? It was no lip phrase, for it came from her heart-a true heart, which pulsated to human needs.

“Noblest of women!” her husband was about to exclaim, but instead of speech, he pressed her to his heart, and then turned and wept.

Why had woman so blest his life, and showered so many gifts upon it, when thousands were dying for one blessing? It was an orison which rose to heaven from his heart that night, and when he laid his head upon his pillow, a rich resolve stirred his being to its depths, that then and ever, his best self should be dedicated to the service of humanity. Pastors sounded the name of God, and proclaimed what they called, “his word,” far and near over the land, and were paid in gold for their speech, but few men lived, acted and spoke like Hugh Wyman. Few reached the human heart so closely, or breathed more consolation into it than he. Old and young, rich and poor, received blessings from his hand and from his cultured mind, each according to his needs. He placed in the hands of those who groped in darkened ways, a light which guided them to the temple of truth, and going out into the highways and hedges of life, invited all to the feast which his heavenly father had spread out for every child of humanity.