Dawn

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"How sublime it is
To suffer and be strong."

Then do we learn the great lesson that there is no quality more
needed in our life than endurance. There is so much which occurs
outside the circle of our own free will, accidents both mental and
physical."

"And yet we feel there can be no accident."

"Nothing in the highest analysis which can be termed such, for all
things are either in divine order, or under human responsibility,
which latter power is too limited. What we term accidents are parts
of, and belong to, the general plan, and when these occur, they
serve to inspire us with endurance, which is no minor virtue-it is
achievement-and bears its impress on the face. These thoughts are
those of another, who has so well expressed them, that I have given
them to you in his own language."

"I shall profit by your words, dear father. I shall need much of
that heavenly quality which is so little appreciated, and apt to be
mistaken for lack of force."

"May you grow in all the Christian graces, and be life and light to
yourself and others, always remembering that your light is none the
less for lighting another's torch."

"I shall go to-day to G--. Will you drive there, yourself alone?"

"I will."

An hour later they were on their way to a quiet village, a few miles
from the Wyman's, where lived a friend of Dawn and her father, with
whom she would stay a few days. The ride was delightful, and their
communion so close and deep, that when they parted, it seemed as
though they had never realized before, their need of each other.
This feeling of tenderness brought them nearer in soul, if that were
possible. It was like moonlight to the earth, mellowing and
softening all lines and angles.

"Dearest father, did I ever love you before?" said Dawn, throwing
herself on his breast, at parting.

"If you had not been working yourself so many years into my heart,
you could not touch its very centre as you do now," he said, wiping
the moisture from his eyes, and folding her more tenderly to
himself. "Partings are but closest approaches, drawings of the
heart-strings, which tell how strong the cords are which bind us to
each other." The door of the friend's house was thrown open just at
this point of his remarks, and a welcome face smiled on Dawn, who
sprung from her seat beside her father, into the arms of her friend.

"Take good care of her, and send her home when you are weary," said
her father, and turned his face homeward, but lingered long in
spirit in the atmosphere of his child.

As he wound his way slowly up the long, shady avenue, that led to
his home, another love came to his bosom, and transfused his being
with a different, but equally uplifting life. A moment more, and he
held that other love close to his heart, the woman whom he had
chosen to brighten his days and share his happiness.

"It seems as though Dawn had returned with you," she said, as she
received his loving caress.

"She is with me, and never so near as now. Heaven grant I may not
make her an idol," he said, fervently, and then, almost regretting
his words, he gazed tenderly into the eyes of his wife.

"You would find me no iconoclast," she said, "for I, too, love her
with my whole heart, and am jealous at times of all that takes her
from us. Yet she must go; day must go, for we need the change which
night brings."

"True," answered Hugh, "no mortal could live continually in such
concentrated happiness as I enjoy in the companionship of my child."
He looked into the face of her who sat beside him, and saw in its
every feature love, true love for him and his own, and he thanked
God for the blessings of his life, laid his head on that true
woman's breast, and wept tears of joy.

It was twilight when they rose from their speechless communion, and
each felt how much more blessed is the silence of those we love,
than the words of one whose being is not in harmony with our own.

It was a relief to Dawn to drop out of her intense sphere into the
easy, contented, every-day life of her friend. They were not alike
in temperament or thought. It was that difference which drew them
together, and made it agreeable for them to associate at times. Such
association brought rest to Dawn, and life to her friend. There was
little or no soul-affiliation, consequently no exhaustion. It was
the giving out of one quality, and the receiving of another entirely
different, instead of the union of two of the same kind, hence there
was not the reaction of nervous expenditure, which two ever feel,
who perfectly blend, after a period of enjoyment. How wise is that
provision which has thrown opposites into our life, that we may not
be too rapidly consumed. For pure joy is to the soul what fire is to
material objects, brilliant, but consuming.

"I am going to have some company to-night, charming people most of
them. I think you will enjoy them, Dawn; at least I hope so,"
remarked Mrs. Austin, rocking leisurely in her sewing chair.

"No doubt I shall." She was not called upon to tell how she should
enjoy them. Amused she might be, but enjoyment, as Dawn understood
it, was out of the question with such a class as came that evening,
and to each of whom Mrs. Austin seemed very proud to introduce her
friend.

Among the guests was one who attracted the particular attention of
Dawn, not from grace of person or mind, although he had them, but
from some interior cause. He was tall, and rather elegant in
appearance, a kind of external beauty which draws most women, and
wins admirers in every circle.

At a glance Dawn perceived that although mentally brilliant, he had
not the spiritual and moral compliment. By his side stood a woman of
the world, whom Dawn at once knew to be his wife, and on her, she
felt that involuntarily her look was steadily, almost immovably
fixed.

She felt like testing the power of inner vision. It seemed to her
that the woman was weighing heavily upon the man, holding him to
earth rather than in any way uplifting him to heaven in his
aspirations. She saw that the chain which bound them, was large,
coarse, and flashed like gold. This led her to conclude that she
married him for his wealth. She saw that the chain was wound around
them both so tight that it was almost suffocating, and that the
links that passed over the woman's heart were corroded and black.

At the instant that Dawn noticed this, some one approached the lady
and asked her to seat herself at the piano. She consented, and after
a great many excuses and unnecessary movements, began to play. A
dark cloud took her place at the side of her husband when she left,
which became greatly agitated as the music proceeded, and soon there
issued from it a female form. That face Dawn had surely seen
somewhere; she passed her hand over her brow and endeavored to
recall the familiar features.

Like a flash it came; it was poor Margaret's face, white and
glorified, but with a shade of sadness resting upon it.

Dawn's whole being quivered with emotion. She saw nothing now in the
room but that form, and the earthly one beside it. The young man
pressed his hand to his brow, as though in troubled thought, and
moved from where he stood, shivering in every limb.

"Are you cold, Mr. Bowen?" some one inquired of him; the window was
closed to shut out the chill air; but the chill which ran over his
frame, no material substance could keep off, for it was caused by a
spirit touching him.

"I declare, he looks as though he was frozen," said his wife, rising
from the instrument amid the usual applause, and drawing close to
him, she whispered in his ear, "You look precisely as you did the
day we met that hearse and one carriage. Come, it's a shame to be so
abstracted." Then, addressing Mrs. Austin, she expressed a wish to
be introduced to the gentleman who came in last, and the
introduction followed.

Nearer and nearer she went. She could not do otherwise, until at
last Dawn stood beside Clarence Bowen, the destroyer of Margaret's
earthly happiness. The face in the cloud grew brighter; hope seemed
to glow from its features, as she stood there and found her way to
his troubled soul, with all the native instinct and delicacy of a
true woman. She talked of life and its beauties, its opportunities
to do good, and of uplifting the down-fallen; still the face shone
on, till it seemed to her that every person present must have seen
it, as she did. Such presences are no more discernable by the
multitude, than are the beautiful principles of life, which lie
every day about us, but which though not seen by them, are none the
less visible to the few.

A new interest glowed in the young man's face; he felt that he had
met a woman divested of the usual vanities of most of her sex. His
being awoke to life under the new current of earnest words which
flowed in his own narrow stream of life. The waters deepened-he felt
that there was something better, higher to live for, as he gazed on
the glowing face before him.

During all the conversation, his thoughts kept flowing back to the
green grove, and the sweet, innocent face of Margaret. There was
surely nothing in the face before him to recall that likeness, yet
the bitter waters of memory kept surging over him, each word
reflecting the image of the wronged girl.

The face which had all the time been visible to Dawn, slowly faded
away, and when the last outline had passed from her sight, she
ceased talking, and left him alone with his thoughts.

Alone with those bitter reflections, heaven only might help him, for
the chains that bound him to earth were many and strong.

He could not resist the impulse to ask permission to call upon Dawn
some day while she remained at Mrs. Austin's, which she readily
granted, and then the party broke up, with a strange murmur of
voices, and rustling of silks.

"Was it not delightful? I hope you had a good time, Dawn," was the
first remark of Mrs. Austin, after the last of the company had left.

"I have enjoyed it very much," and she answered truthfully; but
little did her friend surmise in what manner.

It was a relief to be in her room alone that night, and think over
the thrilling experience of the evening. And this is one of the
lights the world rejects, and calls by every other name but holy. A
light which reveals the inner state, and shows the needs of the
human soul. It may be rejected, but it cannot be destroyed. Man may
turn his back upon it, yet it shines on, though he wilfully refuses
to enjoy the blessing it imparts. The testimony of one who lives in
a dark, narrow lane, that the sun does not exist, would not be
considered of any value. Supposing one chooses to close his eyes,
and declare that it is not morning; shall those whose eyes are open
accept his assertion? Alas, how true it is that many are talking
thus, with closed mental vision, from the rostrum and the pulpit.
Let each see for himself, and take no man's word upon any subject
any farther than that word gives hope and encouragement. Each must
do his own thinking, and look upon every effort of another, to limit
his range of thought or debar him from the investigation of every
new presentation of truth, as an attempt to deprive him of his
liberty.

CHAPTER XXVI.

When Clarence next met Dawn he was greatly dejected. She thought he
appeared too old and wan for one of his years. The brow on which the
light of hope and life should repose, was indeed wrinkled, and
furrowed with unrest because the spirit was ill at ease. There was a
claim upon him, a voice calling for retribution, which through the
very law of life, aside from personal wrong, would not let him rest;
and was only in the presence of Dawn that he experienced anything
like repose. His wife and friends taunted him daily upon his
depression, because they were far from his soul, and could not
comprehend the agony which was working therein. Many thus live only
on the surface of life, and see only results. What a righting of
affairs will come when all are able to see the soul's internal; when
darkness shall be made light. That time is rapidly approaching.

Dawn sat beside him, the same grieved but saintly face shone out, in
the atmosphere.

"I have heard, Miss Wyman, that you sometimes have interior
sight-that you can see conditions of the mind, and the cause of its
depressions. May I ask you if you can at present, penetrate my
state, and ascertain the cause of this unrest?"

She was silent for a moment. The workings of her own mind were
visible on her features. She scarce knew how to break the truth to
him, but soon lighting up she said:

"I think I have seen at least one cause of your unrest. There is a
spirit presence now in this room, a young and lovely girl whom you
have at some time neglected." She did not say "wronged."

He started to his feet.

"The face, Miss Wyman; can you describe her appearance?" his words
and manner indicating his interest, if not belief, in her power.

"She has light blue eyes, heaven blue, and brown hair. She is a
little taller then myself, has a very fair complexion, and she holds
a wreath of oak leaves in front of you."

Clarence turned deadly pale.

"I think she must have been once dear to you, by the look of sweet
forgiveness which she gives you."

He groaned aloud.

"Now she holds in her arms a child-a bright-eyed boy, which has your
look upon its face."

He started with a defiant look, but this changed in an instant to
one of grief, and he leaned his head upon his hands and wept.

Slowly the fair face faded away; then Dawn knew all, and knowing
all, how great a comforter did she become to him! Angels smile on
and mingle in such scenes; mortals see but the surface, and wonder
why they thus mingle, with the usual earthly questioning, whether it
is for any good that the two thus come together.

The long pent-up grief passed away, in a measure, and Clarence felt
as though in the presence of an angel, so sweet and soothing were
the words of promise, and tender rebuke which came from the lips of
Dawn and flowed to his heart, strengthening his purpose to become a
better man.

"Can he who fully repents be wholly forgiven," he asked, in a tone
of deepest want.

"God's mercies are for such and his forgiveness is free, full, and
eternal. It does not flow all at once: it must be obtained by
long-suffering and earnest asking, that we may know its value, and
how precious is the gift."

"Do you think if I were to go beyond, where dwells that one I have
wronged, I could be with her and walk by her side?"

"If your repentance was pure and complete. You would be where your
soul was attracted."

"Do spirits feel the change in our states? If we are sorry for our
misdeeds, can they see that we are?"

"Their mission to earth as helps and guardians to mortals would be
of little use if they could not. They rise and fall with us. They
administer to us, and learn of us. The worlds are like warp and
woof. We stay or go where our labor is, wherever the soul may be
which has claim upon us."

"This must be sight then, real vision, for such a person as you have
described I once loved and wronged. But the hour is late, I must go,
yet I hope you will permit me to call upon you once more. Can I have
your promise to see me again, before you leave the place?"

"If I remain I shall be most happy to see you. Remember that all
your efforts to do right will relieve and elevate this friend who is
around you, who cannot leave you, until her mind has become
assimilated with yours, and the balance of your nature is restored
by the infusing of her life into yours. If she is relieved by your
act, rest will follow; if not, the opposite. This is a law of
nature, and cannot be set aside, no more than two on the earth
living disharmonized and misunderstood, can find rest away from, or
out of, each other.'

"I deeply thank you," he said, "for your kind words. May all
happiness be yours forever." And then they parted, not the same as
when they met, but linked together by the chain of sympathy and
common needs.

Clarence heard not the words of his wife that night as he entered
his home, who after a while grew weary of his absent replies, and
found consolation in sleep. But to him sleep was not thought of. All
night he laid awake, his being transfused with a new current of
thought, and his life going out and soaring upward into a higher
existence. The warp of a new garment was set in the loom. What hand
would shape and weave the woof?

When day broke over the hills another morning burst on his senses,
and Clarence Bowen, of the gay world, was not the same as before,
but a man of high resolves and noble purposes, trying to live a
better life.

Slowly his higher nature unfolded. Very slowly came the truths to
his mind, as Dawn presented them with all the vigor and freshness of
her nature. She told him the story of Margaret, of her death and
burial, and of her father; and while he listened with tear-dimmed
eyes, his soul became white with repentance. As Dawn spoke, the
vision came and went,--each time with the countenance more at rest.
It was an experience such as but few have; only those who seen
beyond, and know that mortals return to rectify errors after their
decease.

There could be no rest for either, until a reconciliation was
effected. Happy he who can stand between the two worlds and transmit
the most earnest wishes of the unseen, to those of earth. The
mission, though fraught with many sorrows, is divine and
soul-uplifting to the subject. But who can know these truths save
one who has experiened them? The human soul has little power of
imparting to another its deepest feelings. We may speak, but who
will believe, or sense our experiences? An ancient writer says:
"There are many kinds of voices in the world, but none of them
without signification. Therefore, if I know not the meaning of the
voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian, and he that
speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me."

"When you tell me of these things I believe; they are real to me,"
said Clarence, "but if I read them, or hear them related as the
experience of others, they are dull and meaningless; why is this?"

"I suppose it is because you so feel my life and assurance of them,
that in my atmosphere they become real and tangible to you."

"I think it must be so. I may yet find strength enough to walk
alone."

"You will walk with her who comes to mingle her happiness with
yours, and to help bear your crosses."

"Is it wrong to wish to die?"

"It is better, I think, to desire to live here our appointed time,
and ultimate the purpose of our earthly existence."

"But I can never be happy here, for there are none who understand
me."

"Seek to understand yourself, and that will draw others to you. It
matters but little whether we are understood in this world, when we
think of the long eternity before us. There is danger of becoming
morbid on that point. We lose time and ground in many such
meditations. Our gaze becomes too much inward, and we lose sight of
life's grand panorama while thus closed in. We can see ourselves
most clearly in others; our weakness and our strength. We need to go
out, more than to look within. Do you not in conversing with me feel
yourself more, than you do when alone?"

"I do. Another essence, or quality of life mingling with our own
gives us our own more perfectly. Will all this power go with us to
the other world, or do we leave much behind?"

"Nothing but the husk-the dust is left here. Whatever is, shall be.
Should you or I pass on, to-day, we should still preserve our
individuality of thought and being."

"And our loves will unfold there, and we be free, think you, to
associate with whom we love?"

"I have no doubt of it in my own mind, but can scarce expect another
to feel the conviction as I do. We shall be better understood there.
Here we have inharmonious natures of our own and others to contend
with. These are given to us and are brought about us without any
ability in ourselves to accept or reject. Our surroundings are not
always what we would wish them, and few find rest or harmony of soul
while here. And yet all this is necessary for proper unfoldment and
development, else it would not be. Few weary pilgrims reach in this
life the many mansions prepared for the soul; few find their
fullness of soul-enjoyment. I have seen some of these weary ones as
they entered the other world and were led to places of rest. As they
caught a single glimpse of the peace and rest awaiting them, their
faces glowed with the light of a divine transfiguration; yet they
knew that the bliss they had been permitted to look upon, and to
hope for, could be theirs only as they were developed into a state
of perfect appreciation of it. Even so the person who enters the
most fully and understandingly into our own feelings, grasps and
holds the most of us. I am yours and you are mine just so far as we
can fathom and comprehend each other."

"I had never thought of that before. How little do they who claim us
as their own, know of the existence of this law; and yet the more I
consider it, the more do I see its beauty, its truth, and the
harmony of all its parts."

Dawn was greatly pleased in seeing how readily he recognized her
position, and continued:

"The relation which such claimants bear to us is one purely external
in its nature, and oft-times painful. It is a kind of property
ownership which ought to be banished from social life. It should be
cast out and have no place nor lot with us, for those higher and
divine principles cannot dwell with us until these things are
regarded as of the past, and now worthless."

"But might not the new flow in naturally, and displace the old?"

"That is partly true, but when content with our condition we feel
the need of no other. This is one reason why to many, the blessings
in store for them are seemingly so long in coming. The man who is
struggling with adversity, and sees nothing but darkness and want
surrounding him, fondly imagines that in the possession of abundance
he would find rest and peace. And yet he could never be blest while
in that condition of feeling, though all wealth were his. But having
passed through, and out of, this condition, and learned that the
exertion induced by privation was the best possible means of his
growth, then, wealth might come to him and be a blessing and a
power. Blessings will come to us when we are prepared by culture or
discipline to rightly employ them for our own good and the good of
others."

"Your thoughts have made me truly blest. You have withdrawn the dark
veil which has hung over me so long. I must surely call this a
blessing."

"And the darkness was the same, for it has led you to appreciate the
light."

He took her hand at parting, and pressed it with the warmth of
generous gratitude, bade her adieu and went out into the darkness of
the evening, but with rays of the morning of life shining in his
soul.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"Dawn! Dawn! where are you?" called Mrs. Austin from the library
after Mr. Bowen had left. "I'm glad that stupid fellow has gone,"
she continued, "for we want you to sing for us."

How could she sing? The sentiment which would suit her mood would
not surely be fitted to those who would listen; but forcing her real
state aside, she played and sung several lively songs.

"Delightful!" exclaimed her friend, "we mean to have more of your
company now, and keep such stupid people as Clarence Bowen away, he
is so changed; he used to be very gay and lively; what do you find
in him, Dawn?"

"A need; a great soul need. He wants comforting."

"What, is he sad? He ought to be the merriest, happiest fellow
alive. He has enough of this world's goods, and a most brilliant
woman for a wife."

"These alone cannot give happiness. True, lasting happiness is made
up of many little things on which the world places but little value.
He has much to make him thoughtful and earnest, and very little to
make him gay."

"You are so unlike everybody else, Dawn. Now I like life; real,
hearty, earnest life. I don't care a straw for hidden causes. I want
what's on the surface. I think we were put here to enjoy ourselves
and make each other happy."

"So do I; but what you call 'happiness,' might to some, be mere
momentary excitement, mere transient pleasure. To me, the word
happiness means something deeper; a current, which holds all the
ripples of life in its deep channel."

"Well, if happiness is the deep undercurrent, as you say, I don't
want it. I want the ripples, the foam, and the sparkle. So let us go
to bed and rest, and to-morrow ride over the hills on horseback.
I'll take Arrow, he's fiery, and you may take Jessie. Will you? You
need some roses on your cheek." And the joyous-hearted woman kissed
the pale face of her friend till the flush came on her cheeks and
brow.

"There; now you look like life; you seemed a moment since as still
and white as snow!"

"Your warm nature has surely changed the condition of things, for I
feel more like riding just now than sleeping."

"That's good. Suppose we have a moonlight race?"

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