Dawn

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The cloud which overhung their sky held the heavenly water which
would make them clean.

It came in the form of sickness. Their eldest boy laid ill and near
unto death. Hope and fear alternated in their hearts as they stood
beside the little one, and saw a raging fever course through his
veins, and day by day the full form wasted away. Thus the baptismal
waters flowed over their souls, and they wept together. Joy beamed
from their faces when the dread crisis was past, and they were told
he would live. Through sorrow they were reunited. They had wandered,
but were returning with life and love in their hearts, and crowns of
forgiveness in their hands. Thus do we ever become strong through
our sufferings, and seeming evils work our good, for they are parts
of the great unity of life.

Mrs. Deane lessened her prejudices, and learned to know and love
those whom her husband had found worthy, and among them, Miss Evans.
With her she passed many pleasant hours, and that noble woman made
known to her, many paths of rest and peace which she had previously
through her ignorance and jealousy, persistently shunned.

The years sped on; some were gathered to their homes above; some
found new relations and strong ties to bind them here, until, at
length, Dawn's eighteenth birth-day came, bright and sunny over the
eastern hills. On the morrow, with her father, she was to leave for
the city where they were to embark for England. The morning was
passed in receiving the calls of friends, and later Mr. and Mrs.
Temple and Miss Evans came to dine with them. The evening was spent
by Dawn alone with her father.

The next day, Florence, now a happy wife and mother, came to see
them off. It had seemed to her for a month previous that all her
partings with them had been final adieus, and now the moment was at
hand which was really to separate them-for how long she knew not. It
was not strange that a vein of sadness ran through the pleasure of
the hour. But each strove to conceal aught that would mar the joy
with which Dawn anticipated her journey, and the gladness which
Florence would experience on their return was by her made to do
service at this their time of departure.

Hugh took the hand of Florence in his own, and held it so closely
that his very soul seemed to vibrate its every nerve. Then his lips
touched her brow; fond good-byes were exchanged, the quick closing
of the carriage door was heard, and they were gone.

Statue-like stood Florence for several moments, then going to the
room she had for so many years occupied, she permitted her tears to
flow, tears which she had kept back so nobly for their sake. Her
husband walked through the garden with a sense of loneliness he
scarce expected to experience; and then back to the library, where
he awaited the appearance of his wife.

She came down soon with a smile on her face, but the swollen eyes
showed the grief she had been struggling with.

"We must look cheerful for Miss Evans' sake," he said, kissing her;
for, somehow he felt as though she too had gone, and he must assure
himself that it was not her shadow alone that stood before him.

"It is so nice," she said brightly, "that Hugh has prevailed on Miss
Evans to remain here during his absence. It would be so lonely with
only Aunt Susan at home. As it is, we can see the library and
drawing-room open, and we shall not feel his absence so keenly."

"And what a charming place for her to write her book in," remarked
Herbert, walking to the bay-window that overlooked the garden.

"We can come over every week and see her and the house, which will
be next thing to seeing Dawn and her father," said his wife,
earnestly.

Despite all his theory, his large and unselfish heart, a strange
feeling came over him, a cloud flitted over his sunny nature. It was
hardly discernable, and yet were it to take a form in words, might
have displayed itself thus: "I fear she loves them better than me."
He shook the feeling off, as though it was a tempter, and said
fondly:

"As our friend Hugh arranged that we take tea in his home to-night,
we will go and meet Miss Evans, who, I think, must be near by this
time."

It was Mr. Wyman's desire that Miss Evans should be at his house as
soon after they were gone as possible, and establish herself within
it. She granted his wish, and requested them to bid her adieu at her
own home, which she would close immediately after, and repair to
his.

"What an atmosphere she will have to work in," said Florence, as she
arranged a delicate vine over a marble bust. "But come, it will be
lonely for Miss Evans to walk all the way by herself, to-day."

They met her just turning into the path. She had a wreath on her
arm, Dawn's parting gift, and a beautiful moss rose-bud in her hair,
which Hugh gave her when he bade her good-bye.

"How were they, happy?" were the first words of Florence, anxious to
hear a moment later from her dear ones.

"Very happy and bright," answered Miss Evans, with an inward
struggle to keep back a tide of emotion. Florence clasped her hand,
and held it in a manner which said, "Let us be close friends while
they are away, and help each other."

The firm pressure assured her that we may talk without words, they
entered the house, and sat down to a nice repast, which Dawn had
prepared with her own hands, while the room was fragrant with
blossoms which she had gathered an hour before her departure.

After supper they walked in the garden, and when twilight came on,
returned to the house, and listened to the charming music which came
from the instrument, under Herbert's magic touch.

"I expect we shall all dream of sunny France, and dreamy Italy,"
said Miss Evans, after the music had ceased, and the time for words
had come.

"If we expect to dream, we must place ourselves in proper condition;
so we must bid you good night, Miss Evans," said Mr. Temple, rising.

"I did not expect my words to hasten your departure, Mr. Temple. Can
you not stay longer?"

"Not another moment," he answered, taking his wife's bonnet and
shawl, which she had brought from the hall, and putting them upon
her. "I expect Florence has gone with our good friends. Come and see
us, Miss Evans, soon. Good night; I will speak for both. Florence
has gone away in spirit."

At this Florence roused, and kissed Miss Evans good night. She had
no words. She was very weary, and felt glad to know that her home
was not far off, only a pleasant walk, for Hugh would not consent
that there should be a great distance between them, so long as the
freedom to build where they chose was allowed.

Florence was indeed weary; neither the morrow, nor the deep love and
devotion of her husband brought her strength back, but she pined day
by day.

Miss Evans carried flowers, Dawn's favorites, to her each day, with
the hope that she would revive. On the contrary, they only served to
keep the spell of languor upon her. At last her husband grew
alarmed, and one evening after she had retired to rest, earlier than
usual, he sought Miss Evans, who, hearing his step on the carriage
path, knew he was alone, and expected to be summoned to his wife.

"How is Florence, to-day?" she inquired, as soon he was seated.

"The same languor oppresses her, and I have come to speak with you
about it. Can you enlighten me in regard to her state? Some strange
fears have crept into my mind, I suppose, because my nerves are
weak, in my anxiety for her." Here he paused, as though he dared not
entertain the thought, much less make it known to another.

In an instant she read his fears.

"I think I understand the cause of your wife's languor, for,
although not an educated physician, I lay some claim to a natural
perception of the causes of physical and mental ills."

"Some people are magnetically related." She continued. "I think Hugh
and your wife were bound by spiritual laws which are as sacred as
physical. They lived upon each other's magnetism. She will droop for
a while, but revive when she receives his letters. He will not feel
the change so sensitively, as he has new life and interests before
him every moment. This relation ought to be better understood, and
will be, I trust, with many others, which are not now recognized as
having an existence."

"Then you think she will recover?"

"Certainly; and a change for the better will be apparent as soon as
she receives his first letter. She is only attenuated now, reaching
after him, her friend and instructor for so many years."

"I feared-I almost-forgive me, Miss Evans, for the strange thought,
that Florence might, after all, have loved Hugh better than myself.
I will not stand in her or any woman's way to happiness, if I know
it."

"Drive that thought from your mind, Herbert." As she said this with
so much depth of earnestness, he noticed that her manner and tone
betrayed not a shadow of surprise at his confession, and his face
turned inquiringly to her.

"It was a wicked thought, I know; let it rest with you, Miss Evans."

"It is buried," she said, "and will never know a resurrection. But
as to its being wicked, it was far from that, and very natural."

"Your words allay my fears, and strengthen my trust."

"They have lived such an earnest life together that his was a
constituent, a part of her own. No wonder that she drooped when this
union of vital sympathy was divided. Neither is it strange that you
should be agitated by doubts and fears; but let me assure you again,
that she by this attraction is none the less your own. She will feel
an infusion of his life through his letters, and regain her wonted
strength. She is yours, and his too; and more to you because she is
much to him."

A smile of peace settled over his disturbed features, as he took her
hand, saying,--

"You have made me strong and trustful, and from this hour my life
will flow in broader and deeper channels. My present is bright; my
future all radiant with hope."

"I am very glad that your call has resulted so pleasantly," said
Miss Evans, and as Mr. Temple left she sent her love to Florence,
with the assurance that she would soon have the pleasure of
welcoming her again to the home of Dawn.

CHAPTER XIX.

There are two classes that are specially liable to disease,--those
who live grossly, and whose lives are spent in scenes of excitement,
and those who are finely organized, so delicately constituted, that
their nerves vibrate to every jar, not only of the physical but of
the moral atmosphere.

There are persons whose routine of daily life is seldom if ever
disturbed; whose minds are at ease on material questions. Having
enough, and to spare, they seek their pleasure from day to day, with
scarcely an interruption of their established course. Such may well
be free from the ills of the flesh, and being so, they complacently
attack the less fortunate, those whose lives are tumultuous and
heavily-laden with their own and other's needs; applying to them
such remarks as, "They might live more regular." "They work too
much." "They do not work enough." "They go about too much." "They do
do not go about enough;" and having delivered their opinions, these
self-satisfied mortals settle themselves down in their comforts,
thanking God they are not as other men.

There are lives that are shaken with convulsions; circumstances over
which no mortal has control, surge their wild, tempest-waves over
them, and all their wishes are of no avail; they must take what is
borne to them. Raying out life every moment; pressed on every side,
with every faculty strained to its greatest tension, is it a matter
of wonder that they become weak, that they sicken and suffer?

Sickness is not a sin, neither is its presence derogatory to our
nature. It implies a susceptibility to the inharmonies of life, and
is complimentary than otherwise to our organization. They are not to
be envied who have never known an hour of pain and languor, for they
come not under the discipline and instruction of one of life's great
teachers. They are apt to be harsh, and cold, and unfeeling towards
their fellows; apt to be boastful of their own strength, and
regardless of the delicate sensibilities of others. While we should
studiously endeavor to live in harmony with the laws of our being,
it is nevertheless true that with all the caution we may exercise,
we cannot avoid, if we are spiritually true, the jarring of the
inharmonies of this world, and from this as much if not more than
from any other cause, come the ills and pains of our earthly life.

These disturbances of the spirit produce to those of fine natures a
similar disturbance of their physical condition; then disease
follows and makes sad havoc with the temple of the soul.

On a subject so intricate as the cause of disease, only a few hints
can here be given.

People become sickly from living too long together; from pursuing
continuously one branch of study or labor; from meeting too often
with one class of minds; from living on one kind of food, or on food
cooked by one person; besides, there are countless other causes;
agitations of mind, overtasked and irregular lives are constantly
generating impure magnetisms, with which the whole atmosphere is
tainted, and which those who are susceptible are forced to absorb.

As there are many causes of disease, there must be many ways of
cure. No one system can regulate the disturbances of the complex
machinery of the human frame.

Dr. Franklin subjected himself to what was denominated the air bath,
as a remedial agent. Others believed in the direct action of the
sun, placing themselves beneath glass cupolas to receive it; while
still later we have the water-cure, which is thought by many to heal
all diseases. These are right in combination, but no one will cure
alone.

Does the strong man, with steady nerves, compact muscle, and perfect
arterial circulation, need the same remedy when ill, as a less
vigorous person, one whose hourly suffering is from a diseased
nervous organization?

One member of a family argues that because he can bathe in ice
water, another, with more feeble circulation, can do the same, and
realize the same results. One man will take no medicine, another
swallow scarcely anything else, and thus we find extremes following
each other.

One ideaism in this direction is as much to be avoided as in any
other. The man of good sense says, "I will take whatever is required
to restore the balance of my system."

Of mental disorders we know little. Asylums for their treatment have
multiplied in our midst, but few of the thousands of educated
physicians are qualified to minister to a mind diseased. Past modes
will not do for to-day. Our conditions are not the same. Our lives
are faster, our needs greater. Our grand-parents lived in the age of
muscle; we exist in the nerve period, and have new demands, both in
our mental and physical structure.

And new light will come in answer to the demand. The eye of
clairvoyance is already penetrating beyond science, and traversing
the world of causes.

Eagerly Florence broke the seal of her first letter from Hugh. He
had arrived safely, and wafted over the sea his own and Dawn's love
and remembrance.

"Dawn desires to go to Germany, first," he wrote, "and as I have
business with parties in Berlin, I shall gratify her wish. I
thought, all along, how much I wished you were with us, but since
writing I feel different. I need you at home to express myself to,
when I am overflowing with thought. If you were at my side, when I
am seeing all these things, we should both have the feast together,
and be done. Now, in rehearsing it to you, I enjoy it over again.
Very much we shall have to talk about, when we meet again. How I
would like to transmit to your mind the vivid impressions of my own,
when I first put my foot on the soil of England; but such things are
not possible, and sometime I hope you will be here yourself, and
feel the thrill of the old world under your feet."

This portion of the long and interesting letter so refreshed her,
that Miss Evans, when she came in after tea, guessed at once the
cause of the sparkling eye that greeted her.

"Letters are wonderful tonics," said Mr. Temple, laughingly, as he
glanced toward Florence.

"That depends from whom they come," she answered, and repented of it
as soon as said. She looked up after a while, but there was no
shadow on his face. She saw that he was sharing her joy, and then
she knew that not a ripple of doubt would ever disturb their
smoothly flowing life.

Miss Evans left at an early hour, and reaching her home, wrote till
nearly midnight. Her nature was one that was most elastic at night;
her brilliancy seemed to come with the stars.

Page after page fell from her desk to the floor; thought followed
thought, till the mortal light seemed to give place to the divine.
At length the theme grew so mighty, and words seemed so feeble to
portray it, that she laid down the pen and wept,--wept not tears of
exhaustion, but of joy at the soul's prospective. Sublime was the
scene before her vision; enrapturing the prospect opening before
earth's pilgrims, and she felt truly thankful that she was
privileged to point out the way to those whose faith was weak, and
who walked tremblingly along the road.

She gathered her pages, laid them in order, and then wrote the
following in her journal:

"Night, beautiful night; dark below but brilliant above. I am not
alone. These stars, some of them marking my destiny, know well my
joys and my griefs. They are shining on me now. The waters are
darkest nearest the shore, and perchance I am near some haven of
rest. I have been tossed for many a year, yet, cease my heart to
mourn, for my joys have been great. The world looks on me, and calls
me strong. Heaven knows how weak I am, for this heart has had its
sorrows, and these eyes have wept bitter tears. The warm current of
my love has not departed; it has turned to crystals around my heart,
cold, but pure and sparkling. There is a voice that can melt them,
as the sun dissolves the frost.-I turn a leaf. This shall not record
so much of self, or be so tinged with my own heart's
pulsations,--this page now fair and spotless.

"I thought, a month ago, this feeling would never come again. I hold
my secret safe; why will my nerves keep trembling so, when down, far
down in my soul, I feel so strong?

"To-night I must put around my heart a girdle of strong purpose, and
bid these useless thoughts be gone. I must not pulsate so intensely
with feeling. My fate is to stand still and weave my thoughts into
garlands for others. I must lay a heavy mantle on my breast, and
wrap fold after fold upon my heart, that its beating may not be
heard. Why have we hearts? Heads are better, and guide us to safer
ports.

"'T is past the midnight hour. What scratches of the pen I have put
upon this virgin page. So does time mark us o'er and o'er. We must
carry the marks of his hand to the shore of the great hereafter.
Beyond, we shall drink from whatever fount will best suffice us.
Here, we must take the cup as 't is passed to us, bitter or sweet-'t
is not ours to choose. These boundaries of self are good. Where
should we roam if left to our inclinations? Let me trust and wait
God's own time and way."

"Dear Florence," wrote Dawn, some months after they had been away,
"I have seen gay, smiling France, and beautiful Italy with its
wealth of sunlight, and its treasures of art. I have seen classic
Greece,--of which we have talked so many hours,--and its fairy islands
nestling in the blue Archipelago,--isles where Sappho sang. I have
been among the Alps, and have seen the sunset touch with its last
gleam, the eternal waste of snow; but more than all, I love dear
Germany, the land of music and flowers, scholarship and mystic
legends.

"Now, my good friend and teacher, how shall I describe to you my
state amid all this new life? At first I felt as though my former
existence had been one long sleep, or as I suppose the mineral
kingdom might feel in passing to the vegetable order, as some one
has expressed it.

"It was an awakening that thrilled my being with intensest delight;
a fullness which left nothing to hope for. A new revelation of life
has arisen within me, as sudden and grand as the appearing of those
mysterious isles which are upheaved in a single night from the
depths of the ocean.

"A deeper pulsation than I have ever known, now stirs my blood. I
feel the claims of humanity calling me to labor. My purpose is
strong; I shall return with this thrill in my heart, and become one
of God's willing instruments. That He will own me, I feel in every
heart-beat. My mission is to erring women, and you, my friend, will
smile, I know, on my purpose.

"The other night I dreamed that a beautiful being stood by my side,
while a light, such as I have never seen on earth, shone about her.

"'Tell me,' I said, 'why this heavenly halo is around you? and if I,
too, may become like you?'

"'Listen.' She answered. 'Years ago, I lived on earth and passed
through much suffering. I seemed to be placed in a close, high
building, into which all the light that could enter came from above.
I could only look up, with no power to turn to the right or left.
After being years in this state, the rays coming thus directly from
above, cleansed my soul, whitened my garment, and made it spotless.
This light became a part of myself; it followed me to the other
world, and now, when I approach earth, it enables me to see all the
errors and virtues of humanity. Wouldst thou be willing to become a
light by which pilgrims can see the way to Heaven?'

"'I would. My only desire is to do good,' I replied.

"'It is easy to desire this,' she remarked, sadly.

"'But wouldst thou be willing to be almost annihilated, were it by
that only you might become a lamp to the pilgrim's feet?'

"I looked into my heart, and think I spoke truthfully, when I
answered that I would.

"'Then thou art accepted,' the angel said. 'It shall not be literal
annihilation, although akin to it, for all your earthly desires must
be swept away; all ambition, fame, learning, friends, must be
sacrificed upon this altar. The light you will bear is fed alone
from heavenly sources. Think again, child, if all these things can
be as naught.'

"I searched my soul once more. One answer, one word broke from my
lips,--'Amen.'

"'T is well,' the angel visitant said; 'thy being shall be turned to
light.'

"I awoke. The morning sun shone in my windows, and laid in golden
bars upon my bed. I thought long of the vision of the night, and
then sat down to pen it to you. To me it is significant. Write and
tell me if it seems but a dream to you. I should like to be
permitted to glorify my name, and be the 'Dawn' of light to some of
earth's weary pilgrims."

CHAPTER XX.

In a pleasant room in Frankfort, on a slight eminence which
overlooked the river Maine, sat a young man, of about thirty years,
in deep meditation. His face showed traces of recent suffering; his
broad, high brow was white as marble, and his hands, though large,
were soft and delicate as a woman's. Near by sat a young girl, whose
physiogomy showed close relationship to the invalid. She was his
sister, and was travelling with him, hoping that change of air and
scenery might produce a beneficial effect on his health.

"I think you seem stronger than when we came, Ralph; don't you?" She
had been watching the color flickering on his face and lips, the
last half hour.

"Yes, the air of Frankfort has done me good, and the present fatigue
is only the result of my journey."

"I am glad to hear you say so; it confirms my impression, which is,
that you will recover."

"Heaven grant it may be so. Long suffering has robbed me of the
buoyancy of hope. I think I have not enjoyed myself more at any time
during my illness, than while we were at Heidelberg, among its
castles."

"I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much. You know how long you
have wished to see the birthplace of Goethe."

"I have, and expect to see his statue to-morrow, which will be
pleasure enough for one day; at least for an invalid. Do you
remember his 'Sorrows of Werter,' Marion? In what work has the depth
of men's emotional nature been so sounded?"

"I remember you read it to me last winter, while I was working those
slippers you have on."

"Ah, yes; delightful days they were, too. I wonder if I shall be
able to see Dannecker's Ariadne the same day?"

"I have forgotten, Ralph, the figure."

"It is that of a beautiful female riding on a panther. The light is
let in through a rosy curtain, and falling upon the form, is
absorbed and incorporated into the marble."

"How beautiful; I wish we could go to-day."

"I shall be stronger to-morrow, and perhaps be able to sketch a
little before I leave."

"Ah, if you could. What a pity that we had to come away from
Heidelburg without your being able to add anything to your folio."

"It was; but if I recover my health, as you think I will, I shall go
again, and see how that place of beauty looks to me in full vigor."

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