Dawn

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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.

CHAPTER XXIV.

She laid still and pale upon the bed, while Dawn moved, or rather
floated, about the room. The tide of life was fast ebbing; the last
grief had sundered the long tension, and soon her freed spirit would
be winging its way heavenward.

"Shall I sit by you and read?" asked Dawn, as the hand on the clock
pointed to the hour of midnight. No sleep had come to the weary
eyes, which now turned so thankfully and trustingly to the
benefactor of the outcast.

In tones sweetly modulated to the time and state, she commenced
reading that comforting psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd."

At its close, Margaret was asleep, and Dawn laid back in her chair,
rested, and watched till morning.

"Where am I? What has happened?" were the questions expressed on the
features of the poor girl, when she awoke, and her spirit wandered
back from dreamland.

It was some time before she could take up the thread of joy which
was now woven into her last earthly days, and forget the dark,
sorrowful past. The old years seemed to her then like musty volumes,
bound by a golden chord. The present peace compensated her for the
long season of unrest, and in its atmosphere her soul gathered its
worn, scattered forces, and prepared itself to leave the old and to
take on the new form.

How few homes are such gates to heaven. And yet they who expect
angels to abide with them, must not forget to entertain the lowly
and the erring. Many have houses decked and garnished, but how
rarely do we find on life's journey, these wayside inns for the
weary pilgrims who have wandered away into forbidden paths.

Not alone did Dawn administer to her; her father and mother soothed
the dying girl's pillow, and infused into the otherwise dark and
troubled soul, rays of eternal light.

Ye who would have beautiful garlands beyond, must care for the
neglected blossoms here, and wash the dust of life's great highway
from their drooping petals. Ye who would seek life, must lose it;
the flowing stream alone is pure and vital. Lives are selfish that
are stagnant, and generate disease and death.

How poor, because destitute of enduring wealth, are those who, rich
in worldly goods, neglect their opportunities, and hence know not
the blessedness of doing good. There is no provision in all God's
universe for such pauperism. Slowly must they, who by their own
acts, become its subjects, work themselves from it into the sphere
of true life. Another world will more plainly reveal this, and it
will be found that they who value not such opportunities here, will
beg for them there. In that existence will be many, who, forgetful
or neglectful of their duty while on earth, must remain in spirit
about this world, and through other organisms than their own, do
that which they should have done, and could have accomplished far
easier, when occupants of their earthly temples. There is no escape
from the law of life, for God is that law, and that law is God.
Happy they who become willing instruments in his hand.

In selfhood, nothing can be done, for life is always in conjunction.
All potent forces are combinations, and egotism ever limits that
power which is daily and hourly seeking lodgment in the midst of
mankind. He who trusts only to himself, destroys his own usefulness,
and blindly turns away from every source of highest enjoyment.

The sun passed slowly over the western hills, tinging with a
beautiful mellowness the clouds along the horizon. It was a pleasant
hour to die, when the earth was still, and weary feet were turning
from labor to rest.

"Shall we know each other there?" asked the dying girl of Dawn.

"It is there as here. We are ever known and loved, for God's
provision for his children extends beyond the vale."

"And are the sinful, the erring, received into peace and rest?"

"None are without sin; none spotless; peace and rest are for the
weary."

"O, comforting words. They must be from God," softly whispered
Margaret; she closed her pale blue eyes as though she would shut out
everything but that one consoling thought.

When she opened them, they shone with a heavenly radiance, and she
reached forth her thin, white hand towards Dawn, who clasped it in
her own. A few short breaths, a single pressure,--it was Margaret's
last token as she went over the river to find that life and rest
which on earth had been denied to her.

Dawn laid the cold, white hands on the breast of the sleeper, and
went out of the chamber where a soul had had its new birth, with
deepened emotions of life, and its claims upon humanity.

The next instant she was clasped to the warm heart of her father,
and nestled closely there until the weary lids closed, and sleep
descended upon her.

He held her through her slumber, and prayed for strength to bear the
separations which must come between himself and child; for most
clearly did he perceive that God had mapped out for her a labor that
would call her from his side.

"May I never shadow the rays of the Infinite," he said, just as she
awoke.

"How clear it is; some cloud seems to have been removed from me,"
spoke Dawn, looking up into his eyes, not perfectly comprehending
all. "I may work in my own way, now you have some one to love beside
me; may I not?"

"Not for worlds, my child, would I hinder you in your mission of
usefulness, and if in the past, I have been selfish, I am not now.
Go and come at your pleasure; bring whom you will to your home, and
my blessings shall rest on them and you."

Dawn had no words with which to express her gratitude. The tears,
that in spite of her efforts to keep them back, would glisten in her
eyes, indicated the depth of her feelings, and the love she
cherished for her father. From that moment their lives flowed like a
river, in a deeper and broader channel, and many bright flowers
blossomed on its margin giving hope to the despairing, rest and
strength to the weary and fainting pilgrims of time.

They made a grave under a willow, and engraved on a plain, white
stone, the simple word: MARGARET.

Parents and child had met in the world beyond, to grow into daily
recognition of, and unfold in a more genial clime, their individual
lives.

Mrs. Thorne (Margaret's step-mother) had died a year previous to the
time when Dawn found the old man in the city, looking for his
daughter.

After Margaret's departure from home, he became dull and listless,
and finally deranged. What subtle attraction led him to the city
where Margaret was stopping, few can comprehend; but to those who
fully realize that guardian angels watch over and guide us, the
mystery is solved, and it, like many other seemingly strange things
of life, made clear in the light of that faith.

It was for woman that Dawn labored, for through her elevation she
saw that the whole race must ascend. All should know that men will
be great if women are; and it is a truth that is daily becoming more
evident, that he must be reached through her. In a Hindoo fable,
Vishna is represented as following Maga through a series of
transformations. When she is an insect, he becomes an insect; she
changes to an elephant, and he becomes one of the same species; till
at last she becomes a woman, and he a man; she a goddess, and he a
god. So, outside the regions of fable, if woman is ignorant and
frivolous, man will be ignorant and frivolous; if woman rises she
will take man up with her.

Two years passed away, and the current of life grew stronger, as
each wave inflowed to the shore where Dawn sat, waiting for
shattered barks. This was her life-mission, and well she knew, to
help the lowly and down-trodden in every station of life, was but
fulfilling the divine command.

They were not all outcasts who laid claim to her love and sympathy;
for, sanctioned by the marriage law, the soul's chastity was daily
being sacrificed to lust, shame, and dishonor. She saw many living
together in wedlock, under the most debasing influences, void of
every grace and feeling which makes life holy and refined; bringing
into the world children, gross, dull, and inharmonious, like
themselves.

The question will force itself upon every thoughtful mind, Why is
all this?

Even to destroy life, heinous as that sin is, cannot be deemed more
sinful than to bring it into being, under such circumstances, to
suffer.

But we are passing through the refining process. Much will be
questioned, much remain unanswered. Let us look well to ourselves,
and learn that there are many ways in which we may err, before we
condemn others.

The light of to-day is insufficient for to-morrow; let us,
therefore, be not too assertive, and bold, but follow quietly the
indications of life, not closing down our opinion upon any of its
agitations. To-day is ours, no more; sufficient unto the day is the
evil. We burden ourselves each hour with too many questions which
retard our progress.

A wise man takes no more weight than his horses can draw. Our
journey would be swifter, if we started with less each morning. We
can not hasten God's purposes. Growth is slow; feverish action is
disease. The throbbing pulse is beating away our vital forces, not
adding to life, and yet how many do we behold, who, working in this
unhealthy manner, look on those more calm and collected, as lacking
force.

The cataract expends itself in spray and foam; the deep river, more
slow, bears its tribute of wealth to the ocean.

Let us work calmly, and not mistake mists for mountains. Depth is
height.

Enthusiasm is the sun which warms, not burns, our lives. It is a
richness, a fullness of being, not a wild, spasmodic action.

With Dawn's efforts came increased light, until it seemed to her,
that all the motives of human souls were laid open before her
vision. This power of perception made her life compact, sharp, and
real; and there were moments when she longed for a veil to be let
down between her and the persons with whom she came in contact.

She walked among the crowd, but did not mingle with it. She soared
above, and they who could not comprehend her, called her strange and
odd. Such chasms must ever exist, where one sees the heart's
interior, and knows that its true beatings are muffled and
suppressed. With such clear vision, the mind at times almost loses
its mental poise, its equilibrium, and forgets the glorious hopes
and promises which are recorded in the book of life, as compensatory
for all its conflicts here.

After many months of a life of intensity, it was with a sense of
relief that Dawn, upon opening a letter from Miss Weston, received
information of her intention of making her a short visit. This would
so change the tenor of her life, that she was overjoyed at the
thought of the happiness in store for her. But when, at the close of
a bright summer day, she met her friend at the door, and recognized
the life of Ralph so closely blended with her spirit, she
involuntarily shrank from her approach, and almost regretted that
she had come. She, however, quickly rallied all her forces, fearful
lest the shadow might be mistaken for that of uncordiality, and
drawing her tenderly to her side, imprinted her warmest kisses upon
her lips.

Tears sprang to Edith's eyes, and coursed down her cheeks; tears
which Dawn could not comprehend, for her vision, both mental and
spiritual, was clouded, her thoughts wandered, and her words seemed
vague and indirect.

Seated in the library after tea, she asked her friend to sing for
her.

Miss Weston readily complied, and sang with beautiful pathos and
feeling, Schubert's Wanderer.

"Why that song?" said Dawn, as Edith rose from the instrument.

"I seemed to sing it for you, for I, surely, am no wanderer now."

The color rose to Dawn's face, as she said quickly, "I hope not.
Then you, at last, have found rest?"

"Perfect peace and rest. I think I never found my home before; for I
am so happy with Ralph and Marion."

Was Dawn jealous? What did that blushing face mean, followed by a
whiteness rivalling that of the snow? Was it caused by fear, or
hope?

Miss Weston seemed not to notice her agitation, but continued
praising Ralph and his sister, till her listener proposed a walk in
the garden before retiring.

They strolled among the flowers and shrubbery, and then sat upon the
same seat which her father and mother had so often occupied.

Her tears could flow now and not be seen, so she repressed them no
longer, but allowed them to fall freely over her blanched cheek.

"Dawn," said Edith, suddenly, "I have a fairy tale which I wish to
read to you to-night, before we go to our slumbers."

Dawn, glad of any diversion, gladly assented, and they went into her
room, where they sat together, while Edith read the following tale:--

"In the days of chivalry, when life to the wealthy was a series of
exciting enjoyments, and to the poor a hopeless slavery, a Fairy and
a beautiful child lived in an old castle together. The owner of this
large and neglected building had been absent on the crusade ever
since the time which gave him a daughter and deprived him of a wife;
but many an aged pilgrim brought occasional tidings of the glory he
was winning in the distant land. At last it was said he was wending
his way homeward, and bringing with him a young orphan companion,
who had risen, by dint of his own brave deeds alone, from the rank
of a simple knight to be the chosen leader of thousands. The child
had grown to girlhood now, and very bright upon her sleep were the
dreams of this youthful hero, who was to love her and be the all of
her solitary life. I said she dwelt with the Fairy; true, but of her
presence she had never dreamed. Always invisible, the being had yet
never left her. She whispered prayer in her ear, as she knelt
morning and evening in the dim little oratory; she brought calm and
happy feelings to her breast, which the commonest things awoke to
joy and life; she led her to seek and feel for the needy, the sick,
and the suffering; she nurtured in her the holiest faith in God, and
trust in man; yet the maiden thought she breathed all this from the
summer evenings, the flowers, the swift labor of her light fingers,
and the thousand things which cherished the happiness growing up
within her heart.

"It was night, and Ada slept; the moon's rays, gilding each turret
and tower, crept in at the narrow portal which gave light to the
chamber, and lingered on the sunny hair and rounded limbs of the
sleeping girl.

"The Fairy sat by her side, weeping for the first time.

"'Alas!' said she, 'the stranger is coming; thou wilt love him, my
child; and they say that earthly love is misery. Among us, we know
no unrest from it; we love, indeed, each other and all things
lovely, but ages pass on, and love changes us not. Yet they say it
fevers the blood of mortals, pales the cheek, makes the heart beat,
and the voice falter, when it comes; yet it is eternal, mighty, and
entrancing. Alas! I cannot understand it! Ada, I must leave thee to
other guidance than my own. I love thee more than self, still I can
be no longer thy guide.'

"The Fairy started, for she felt, though she heard not, that other
spirits had suddenly become present. She raised her eyes, and three
forms, more radiant than any fairy can be, were gazing on her in
silent sadness.

"'O, spirits,' cried the weeper, faintly, 'who can ye be?'

"'The shades of love,' replied voices so etherially fine that a
spirit's ear could hardly discern the words.

"'The shades," repeated the Fairy in surprise; 'I thought love was
one.'

"'I am Love,' said the three together; 'intrust the untainted heart
of your beloved one to me.'

"'O, pure beings,' cried the Fairy, bending reverently before them,
'will ye indeed guide Ada to happiness, yet ask my permission? Tell
me, though not human, to choose which a human heart would prefer.'

"'My name is Mind,' replied the first. 'When I dwell on earth, I
bind together two etherial essences; I unite the most spiritual part
of each; I assimilate thought; I cause the communion of ideas. No
love can be eternal without me, and with me associate the loftiest
enjoyments. Words cannot tell the rapture of love between mind and
mind. Dreams cannot picture the glory of that union. Very rarely do
I dwell unstained and alone in a human breast, but when I do, that
being becomes lost in the entireness of its bliss. Fairy, the lover
of Ada is a hero; wilt thou accept me to reign in her heart?'

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