Dawn

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"I do play and sing, but not as well as I hope to with opportunities
for practice."

"Do open the piano, papa, it will spoil shut up so."

"So it will, Dawn. I will open it this moment," and he silently
accused himself for keeping it closed so long.

"Do you love music, Dawn?" asked Miss Vernon, "can you sing?"

"You shall hear her, and then judge. Come, darling, while I play
your favorite song;" and he commenced the prelude to a low, sweet
air. She began at first tremulously, but gained confidence at each
word, until at length her sweet, childish tones rose pure and clear
above the voice of her father, who hummed rather than sang the song
in his deep, rich bass.

His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his
wife's favorite. He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that
her mother ever sung it.

"It seemed just as though mamma was here and sang too, papa, did n't
it?"

"Mamma, no doubt, is with us. I am glad my little girl feels her
presence, and always remember that she is with you, too, when you
feel tempted to do wrong."

She nestled her head on his bosom and wept. Tears of joy or sorrow?
Only they whose souls are finely and intensely strung, can know what
made her weep.

"You must sing for us now, Miss Vernon," he said, and would have led
her to the instrument, but for the burden of love, which was resting
on his heart.

"I play only simple songs, Mr. Wyman, and, indeed, am quite out of
practice."

"You have some gems stowed away, I know; please sing us one."

She arose, and after a few trembling notes, sang a sweet song with
such pathos and richness that Mr. Wyman called again for more and
more. Dawn was wild with joy, and then her father, after Miss Vernon
declined to play more, proposed that they should sing an evening
hymn.

In this they all joined, Miss Vernon's rich contralto blending
sweetly with Dawn's pure soprano.

Their dreams were sweet and peaceful that night. Their souls had all
met and harmonized, and harmony ever brings rest.

The following day Miss Vernon looked over Dawn's clothing, and laid
aside whatever needed repairing. She was just folding some aprons,
when the child rushed into the room, saying,--

"O, Miss Vernon, I must wear my blue dress to-day."

"Why that one?"

"Because I feel good, and blue is heavenly, so let me wear it,
please, will you?"

"It's rather short, Dawn, but I suppose it will cover all your
goodness for one day, will it not?"

"O, don't laugh, I feel truly good to-day, and any other dress would
not do."

"You shall have it, Dawn. I am glad you like to dress according to
your feelings. I do myself."

"Then how do you feel to-day, and what shall you dress in?"

"I feel very, very happy, but have no garment to symbolize my
feelings."

"I don't want you to wear that grey dress, though, to-day?"

"Why?"

"Because it don't say anything."

"Nor my black?"

"O, no, no!"

"How will the drab with blue trimmings suit?"

"It's just the dress. You are silent, and have been rather sad, you
know, Miss Vernon, and the blue is the glimmer of sky above your
old, dull life. Do wear the drab with blue ribbons."

"I will, Dawn. My life is brighter, because I have some one to
love;" and she pressed her lips warmly to the cheeks of her little
charge.

When Mr. Wyman came in to dinner he thought he had never seen Dawn
looking so fresh and beautiful, while his eyes rested in full
satisfaction on Miss Vernon's lovely form, so becomingly arrayed. He
liked the absence of the black dress, for its removal seemed to
betoken a happier life, a life which he knew she needed, and which
he mentally resolved she should possess, so far as he could
contribute to it.

At the table, Mr. Wyman was talkative and gay, touching lightly here
and there, upon subjects, without argument. It was conversation, not
discussion, or an array of opinions, which flowed from the minds of
those around the board, and of such a nature that all could join,
from young to old.

Miss Vernon delighted in watching him as his eyes rested tenderly on
his child. It was charming to witness such a tender relation
existing between father and daughter.

CHAPTER III.

The days flew swiftly by, and the still, peaceful Sabbath dawned.

How tranquil, and yet how full of life it seemed to Miss Vernon as
she sat at her window and gazed on the scene of beauty before her. A
lovely spring morning-the distant hills soft and mellow; the emerald
fields glittering with dew-the tasseled pines nodding in the gentle
breeze-and the whole atmosphere vibrating with the tones of the
Sabbath bells.

"Surely," she said, "I need no form of worship. God is in all this.
I wonder if I must go from all these beauties to a temple made with
hands."

"Is n't this pleasanter than sitting in a bare walled church?" said
Dawn, who had entered the room so softly that Miss Vernon was only
made aware of her presence by this inquiry.

"I think it is. Do you go to church?"

"No. Papa does sometimes, but he never makes me go."

"I hope not."

"Shall you go to-day, Miss Vernon?"

"Not if I can act my pleasure."

"I am so glad, for papa said if you did not go, we would all take a
walk, but if you wished to go, he would harness Swift and take you.

"I had much rather take the walk to-day. Some day, I shall want to
go to your church."

"There, papa is ready, I hear him in the hall. Get your hat, Miss
Vernon."

"But you forget he has not yet invited me."

"Dawn, ask Miss Vernon whether she will take a walk with us, or go
to church?" said Mr. Wyman, at that moment calling from the foot of
the stairs.

Miss Vernon was not long in making known her choice, for she sprang
and put on her hat, and in a few moments the three were walking
through the garden towards the woods and fields.

"Which direction, Miss Vernon, shall we take?"

"Any; it's all lovely."

"Then lead the way, Dawn, and mind you act as a good pilot, and do
not get us into any brooks."

She ran gaily on before, and they soon found themselves on the verge
of a rich, mossy dell.

"O, is it not beautiful, papa? I shall carry all this lovely moss
home."

"No, Dawn, let it remain. Gather a few specimens from here and
there, but do not mar the general beautiful effect. It is ours now;
we can not make it more so by carrying it home to fade and die. Can
we, darling?"

"No. You are always right and good, papa."

"To-morrow others may come here, and the lovely scene will be as
pleasing to them as to us. There is a possession, Miss Vernon, other
than that which the world recognizes; and it is always pleasant to
me to think that though a man may build himself a palace, and call
himself its proprietor, he alone really owns it whose eyes see the
most of its beauties, and whose soul appropriates them. And so, a
lovely spot like this, or the finest garden may belong to the
passer-by whose purse does not contain a penny."

"How it smoothes in life the inequalities of station, and makes us
content to admire, rather than strive for ownership."

"I see by your fervent enjoyment of the scene around us, Miss
Vernon, that you, too, have discarded some of the old forms of
worship, or rather found that a true worship of the divine is not
limited by four walls."

"I have. For a long time I have seen so much bigotry, and so great a
lack of all the Christian virtues, even in the most liberal
churches, that I have felt I must seek my own mode of enjoying the
Sabbath."

"I long ago found my true relation to all places and forms of
devotion," remarked Mr. Wyman. "I do not for a moment ignore the
church, nor what Christianity has done for us, yet while I see the
good the church has accomplished, I also see its shortcomings and
regret them. As an individual, I can say that I have done with most
church organizations. I have heard good and earnest words spoken by
clergymen in the pulpit once a week, and as good from the lips of
working people at their tasks every day. I do not undervalue the
influence that the forms of worship have on the masses. While they
need them, they must remain where they are, and have them. I only
want the church to be so liberal, that men and women who feel that
they are getting life in another direction, will be recognized by it
to be as good and true to their needs, as though they sat within its
walls. How much have we at the present day of this? Who is large
enough to feel that we cannot always draw from one fount? We are not
machines, to be continually run in one direction."

"What do you think of our sabbath schools. Do they not need a new
life, too?"

"Unquestionably. I think they need an infusion of dramatic life;
something that interests while it instructs. Dry catechisms are not
suited to the children of our day. We want the living present, and
not the dead past. If I was called to superintend a sabbath school,
I would have a little play enacted by a portion of the children, and
then another portion, until all were actors in their turn."

"If you express your opinions, I fear you will wait a long time for
a call?"

"I do not crave the position; I am only anxious to see the effect of
my theory in practice. Children need demonstration; need muscular
action. But I am, perhaps, wearying you."

"Go on. I am interested in all that relates to new phases of life."

"I should astonish some divines of the conservative order, were I to
publish my views of social and religious life. I would sooner give
money to build theatres, than churches. Everywhere I would cultivate
a love for the drama, which is the highest and most impressive form
of representing truth. My being is stirred to greater depths by good
acting than it can possibly be by mere preaching. I shall be happy
to see the day when religion is acknowledged to be the simple living
out of individual lives, always toned, of course, by pure morality.
I hope to see acts of kindness looked upon as religion, instead of a
mere personal attendance upon worship. But I have talked too long.
Where is Dawn?"

They walked on, and soon found her sitting on a moss-covered stone,
twining a wreath of wild flowers. She looked like a queen, as she
was for a time, of that beautiful dell.

"Have flowers souls, papa?" she asked, as he approached her.

"I hope they are immortal, at least in type. But why do you ask?"

"Because these flowers I have gathered will fade and die, and if
they have souls they will not love me for gathering them, will
they?"

"Perhaps all the sweetness of these flowers, when they die, passes
into the soul of the one who gathers them."

"O, how pretty! That makes me think about the little girl who played
with me one day and got angry. You told me that she was better for
the bad feeling I had; that I had taken some of her evil, because I
could overcome it-it with good."

"I am glad you remember so well what I tell you. Now as we cannot
tell whether flowers have souls or not, we will believe that all
their sweetness passes into ours."

"But if I should kill a serpent?"

"You must cover the evil with good."

"But, papa, people come to our house all full of evil things, like
serpents. Don't they have enough good to cover them, or why do I
feel them so plain?"

"I fear not; or, rather, their goodness has not been cultivated and
made large enough to absorb the evil. We must go home now, or Aunt
Susan will be waiting for us."

The three walked home together, in harmony with nature and
themselves. They found their dinner waiting, and the simple meal
neatly prepared, was graced with a vase of beautiful flowers.

CHAPTER IV.

In a few weeks the little neighborhood was duly aroused, and
discussing the state of affairs at Mr. Wyman's. Each one considered
herself called upon to pass judgment upon the daily proceedings.

"It's too ridiculous, right in the face and eyes of honest people,
to see this woman and Mr. Wyman carrying on as they do," said Miss
Gay, a lady of forty years, whose notions of the mingling of the
sexes were of the strictest character.

"Why, how? Do tell us," chimed in her companion, a garrulous old
lady.

"Why, they say that this young woman is going about with Mr. Wyman
all the time. He takes her to ride almost every day, and they have
interminable walks and daily confabs together."

"Well, I should think the child's lessons would come off slim, Miss
Gay."

"O, that's only a subterfuge. They'll be married 'fore one year has
gone by."

"I do not believe Hugh Wyman will ever marry again," said one who
knew his character better than the others.

"Then what can he want of that young woman? No good, depend on
that," and Mrs. Green shook her head as though she had more in it
than she wished at that time to display.

While they chat and waste the hours, let us go and listen to the
parties talked of, and judge for ourselves whether two earnest souls
can not approach, enjoy each other, and yet be pure and blameless.

"I can scarcely believe, Mr. Wyman, that so brief a period could
work such a change in my being. Before I came here, I thought all
the world cold and heartless. You have taught me that friendship,
even between men and women, may exist, and that the only true
relations are of soul and not of blood. I can never by words tell
you how grateful I feel to you for all these teachings," and she
looked thoughtfully out on the summer scene before her.

"I am very glad that you are happy here, Miss Vernon, for when I
first saw you I instinctively felt that you were just the companion
for myself and daughter. I saw, too, the cloud which hung over you,
and felt that my hand could lift it. You belong to Dawn and myself,
and we shall keep you so long as you are happy."

"But-"

"But what? I know your fears, and what this busy little neighborhood
will say. I care no more for all its ideas of life than for the
wind, while I feel right here," said Mr. Wyman, placing his hand
upon his heart. "The time has come for all to live individual lives.
I would not for a moment have your name sullied, but should you go,
would gossip cease? No; stay here, Miss Vernon, and show to this
little portion of the world that man and woman can live together
sociably and honorably. I love you as a sister; no more. My dear
Alice is now my wife, the same as when on earth. I speak as I do,
knowing that you will meet with many sneers and frowns if you stay,
but the consciousness of right will sustain you."

"How could you know what was in my mind? You have, indeed, expressed
all my fears as regards this relation between us."

"Will you go or stay?"

"I shall stay."

"May you never regret the decision."

"Now may I ask you about this strange belief, that the departed are
about us? Excuse me, if I seem curious, but when you spoke of your
dear wife, my whole being quivered with a new and strange emotion. I
only ask from deepest interest."

"I believe you. I wish I could transmit to your mind the proofs of
my belief. I have almost daily positive proof of my wife's presence,
sometimes by my own powers, and then again from those of my child."

"Then she, too, sees like yourself?"

"She does. And every day my experiences are too real and tangible
for me to deny, or even doubt that the loved, and so-called 'lost,'
are with us still. To my mind, there is nothing unnatural about it.
Every day my faith deepens, and not for all the glory of this life
would I change my belief. Death has brought myself and Alice nearer
together. But I can only state to you my faith in this, my
experience cannot be imparted. Each must seek, and find, and be
convinced alone by personal experience and observation."

"I believe you, and your earnest words have sunk deep within my
mind, yet in modern spiritualism I have little faith."

"Mere phenomenal spiritism is of course only designed to arrest the
attention; its other form appeals to the soul, and becomes a part of
the daily lives of those who realize it."

"But I have heard of so much that was contradictory, so much that
cannot be reconciled."

"Neither can we reconcile the usual manifestations of life. Our
daily experiences teach us that seeming absurdities abound on every
hand."

"That is true. I sometimes think I shall never get the evidence
which my nature requires to convince."

"In God's own time and way it will come, and when you are best
fitted to receive it."

"But please go on, Mr. Wyman, and tell me more of your experience."

"I would I could tell you how often when I am weary, my dear Alice
comes and watches over me at night; how truly I feel her thoughts,
which she cannot express in words; and how, when the poor and needy
are suffering, she leads me to where they dwell amid scenes of want.
When my pure child speaks thoughts beyond herself, and describes to
me some vision which I at the same time behold, with the exact look
and gesture of her mother, I say I believe in spirit communion. I
can well afford to let the world laugh; I know what I see and feel.
And well do I know how much there is mixed with this modern
spiritism, which has no origin save in the minds of the persons who
substitute their hopes and thoughts for impressions. On this I have
much to say to you at some future period. It is well that it is so,
else we should not discriminate. Life is so full of adulterations,
that which the world calls 'evil' is so mingled with that it calls
'good,' would it not be strange if this phase should come to us pure
and unmixed?"

"It would not take you long to make me a convert to your faith; yet
I hope sometime to have my own experiences. If there was not so much
that conflicts with our reason, I think every one would naturally
accept the belief you so fondly cherish."

"Without such conflicting experiences, we should be mere machines.
We must grow in every direction, using every faculty for our
guidance, yet ever remembering there are mightier realms than
reason, and that the human soul must often go beyond that portal, to
catch glimpses of the silent land."

"Life would indeed be blessed to me, could I feel an assurance that
my mother was near me to strengthen me in my hours of weakness, and
that she was interested in my labors."

"I know all our earnest longings are answered, and that sufficient
proof will be given you. Say nothing of this conversation to Dawn. I
have my reasons, and should not be surprised if, in a few days, she
should give you a test of spirit presence."

"Can Dawn see as clearly as yourself?"

"She can, and far better. I do not force the gift upon her, or seek
to overwork her powers. I want it to be natural and to unfold with
all her other capacities. Never question her, let all come freely."

"I will remember; and here she comes laden as usual with flowers."

"O, Miss Vernon, O, papa, I have had such a good time!" she
exclaimed out of breath and almost wild with excitement.

"What was it all about, child?"

"I was on the hill out here, getting flowers, when I seemed to hear
music, all at once in the air. I think I went to sleep, but if it
was a dream I know it means something, for I saw a tall, beautiful
lady come to me, and on her forehead were the letters, M. V. Then
she took a little box inlaid with gems, and drew from it a necklace
of pearls, and then she went away, and as she turned-I saw these
words come like a light-'Tell Florence.' Now, papa, what did it
mean?"

Mr. Wyman turned to Miss Vernon who was weeping. He waited until her
emotion subsided and then said,--

"Your mother, was it not?"

"They were my mother's initials. Her name was Mabel Vernon, and mine
Florence."

"How strange. And the necklace, do you recognize that?"

"My mother gave me-on her dying bed-a pearl necklace in such a box
as described by Dawn."

"And we did not know your name was Florence. We only knew you as
Miss Vernon."

"Can it-can this be true? Ah, something tells me I may believe. I am
too full now, Mr. Wyman, to talk. I must go."

"Call me Hugh, Florence, I am your brother--" and he led her gently
to the house.

She remained in her room all that evening. Deep and strong was the
tide which was setting into her new life. "If 't is true, 't is the
greatest truth mortal has found," she said again and again to
herself, as the old upheaved, and the new flowed into her soul. Life
was becoming almost too full; her brain grew fevered, but at last
sweet sleep, that soul refiner, came, and after a night's repose she
awoke, calm and at rest.

CHAPTER V.

After breakfast, Mr. Wyman informed Miss Vernon and Dawn that he
should go away that day on business, and be absent perhaps two
weeks.

"I have a book which I would like you to take to Miss Evans for me
to-day," he said, addressing Miss Vernon.

"The lady who called here soon after I came?"

"The same."

"I like her much, and should be pleased to see her again."

"I am glad you do. She is my ideal of a true woman, and one whom
every young, earnest soul ought to know. You will go to-day?"

"Certainly; I am anxious to see her in her own home."

"She is queen of her domain, and entertains her friends in a most
lady-like manner; but I must bid you both good-bye, and be off. Be
happy, Miss Vernon, Florence, and let me find you full of good
things to tell of yourself and Dawn, on my return. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, papa," rang out on the sweet summer air till he was out
of sight, then the child's lid trembled, the lips quivered, and she
laid her head on the bosom of her friend and teacher, and gave vent
to the grief which ever wrung her at parting with her kind parent.

"I am glad you did not let your father see those tears. You are
getting quite brave, Dawn."

"I feel so bad when he goes. Shall I ever be strong like you, and
look calm after these partings? Perhaps you don't love papa; but
every body does that knows him-you do, don't you?"

"Very much; but we will go to our lessons, now, dear."

"Can I bring my book into the hall, to-day? I like to stay where I
saw him last."

"Certainly; and we will have a review to-day and see how well you
remember your lessons. We shall have no interruptions this morning,
and after dinner we will go together to see Miss Evans."

An hour passed, and the lessons were but half through, when a ring
at the door caused them both to start, and they left the hall.

Aunt Susan answered the call, and ushered the visitors into the
family sitting-room.

"Some ladies have called to see you, Miss Vernon," she said,
thrusting her head into the doorway of the room where teacher and
pupil sat close together with clasped hands, as though some invading
force was about to wrest their lives apart.

"In a moment, Aunty, I will see them," and a strange shudder shook
her frame.

"Where shall I go while they stay?" asked Dawn.

"Anywhere; only not far from home, as we intend to have an early
dinner."

"Then I will stay here, and look over papa's folio of drawings."

Miss Vernon went to her room to see that her hair and dress were all
right, and then slowly descended the stairs to the sitting-room. Her
hand trembled violently as she turned the knob, and she almost
resolved to go back to her room. "I am growing so sensitive of
late," she said to herself, "but this will never do, I must go in,"
and she opened the door.

Three ladies hastily rose and bowed very formally, as she entered.

The tallest and most stylish of the three blandly inquired for her
health, and after a few commonplace remarks, announced the object of
their visit.

"We have come to you, Miss Vernon, to-day, as friends of our sex, to
inform you of, as you may not fully comprehend, the character of the
man whom you are serving."

Miss Vernon coolly signified her attention.

"We deemed it our duty to do so, being married women," broke in a
little squeaky voice, belonging to the most demure-looking one of
the party.

"Yes, we all decided, after long deliberation," added the third,
"that no young woman who cared for her reputation, would tarry a day
longer under this roof. This visit of ours is an act of the purest
kindness, and we trust you will receive it as such, and in a kind
spirit."

"Yes," resumed the first speaker, "it is no pleasant duty, and one
we have long delayed performing, but we could not bear to see youth
and innocence betrayed."

Miss Vernon at first seemed stunned. She knew not what to say, so
many emotions filled her. She tried to speak, but her tongue lost
its power, and all was silent. She made one more effort, and voice
and courage returned, enabling her to address her "friends."

"Will you inform me, ladies, what grounds you have for your
accusations against Mr. Wyman?"

"I beg pardon, Miss, we who have known him longer than yourself, of
course know both sides of his character; indeed he has no reputation
in B--, as all know."

She started involuntarily. What passed through her mind at that
moment none can tell, but all can form some idea of the wild tremor
of doubt which was gaining strength under their vile calumny and
falsehood.

They saw their vantage ground, and followed close with such
invectives as women only know how to hurl against whomsoever they
assail.

"Strangers," she could not call them ladies, "I can only speak out
of my own experience of this person who a few months ago was unknown
to me. He has ever treated me with all delicacy and respect. I have
ever found him to be a gentleman. I cannot, will not, believe your
assertions," she said with emphasis, a sudden strength coming over
her.

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