Dawn

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"Since then, I have travelled years and years, following this light;
when I did not, I have failed in my mission. I am not understood.
This little village, to which seven years ago I found my way, has
not a soul in it that knows me as anything but a 'Witch'-a diviner
of events. I have sat in halls of splendor, and revealed strange
things to men and women. I have visited the sick and
down-trodden-and everywhere this power has gone with me, carrying
comfort and light. I think my earthly mission is almost over. I seem
to see a light, like the glimmer of a lamp which shines for a
traveller to guide him home."

She paused. The story was told. Margaret sat silent, too much
occupied with her own deep thoughts, to look on the woman's face.

It was past midnight. The fire was out, on the hearth. A strange
stillness pervaded the room. It grew oppressive. Margaret rose and
went towards the old woman, who seemed to have dropped asleep. She
took the withered hand in her own. It dropped lifeless. She was
dead; the two whose lives had become as one by suffering, were
parted. Sibyl had gone to that world where the erring are forgiven.
Margaret was left to struggle on with an adverse fate, and thereby
ripen for the kingdom.

The morning flooded through the narrow windows of the humble cot,
and lit up the pale, dead features with a strange light. Margaret
must leave. Though heeding the woman's words of warning, and
resolving to avoid the stranger she had met, she saw but one course
before her, and that was, to go to the city and seek refuge in some
hospital, during her approaching need. She struggled with her
feelings a long time at leaving the dead alone, and so irreverently,
but circumstances were pressing her on; she could not do otherwise,
and stepping out from the shelter, where her soul had been so deeply
thrilled, she walked rapidly to the station, and sat with her veil
closely drawn, awaiting the hour for the departure of the train. It
came at last, though the time seemed very long to her, the more so,
as she was in constant fear of being recognized, but fortunately no
one saw her whom she knew.

She trembled all over, as she took her seat in the car, and saw an
elegantly dressed woman enter and look about as though in search of
some one; for under the "purple and fine linen" was the stranger,
the willing destroyer of hundreds of young, innocent lives. To her
relief, however, the woman passed on to another car, and Margaret
felt as though all danger was over. It gave her a respite from her
fears, that was all, for she did not know that the woman's keen eye
recognized, and was quietly laying her plans to ensnare her.

One weary form was through with its earthly toil; one bark was
moored to celestial shores, beyond this rough clime, this imperfect
world, in which all are judged by externals. She was no longer old
and wrinkled,--"But a fair maiden in her father's mansion."

The town buried her and sold the few articles of furniture to defray
expenses. Thus ended the life of one who was once the belle of a
great city, the child of luxury and tender care, and her body was
laid in the town lot among the graves of the poor. All supposed she
died alone, at night, and a few words of real pity fell from some
lips as all that remained of her on earth was borne through the
streets.

Before the winter snows fell, Mrs. Armstrong planted a white rose
beside her grave, remarking to her husband, that it was hard for one
to die alone unloved, and a stranger to all about her. "She may have
been once lovely and beloved," she said, as she pressed the sod
close about the tree. "I should not like to die away from my
kindred, with none to care for my last resting place." This done,
the kind woman walked home happier for the deed of goodness she had
performed, while unseen hands dropped their heavenly benedictions on
her head.

CHAPTER XVII.

In a small parlor in the city of Berlin, where, fifty years ago,
young Sibyl's heart had thrilled to words of love, sat a party of
young men, over their wine, while mirth and song flowed freely.

Light-hearted, and free from care, they had met to pass the evening
hours, with songs and wondrous tales.

"Come my good fellows," said the eldest, who appeared to be the
leader of the group, "we must relate our stories, as the hours are
waning. Krepsel, we will hear from you first, to-night."

"Shall the tale be sad or gay?" said Krepsel, looking around the
group.

"Either," exclaimed the voices in chorus. He took a glass of wine
and then commenced.

"Many years ago a young man was studying in a Military Academy in
this city, who, a few weeks after his entrance, had a strange dream,
or vision, which changed all the future which he had mapped out for
himself. He had a great love of art, and was often found with his
pencil and paper, apart from others, instead of mingling in their
recreations. For several nights, he dreamed that a lovely female
approached his bed-side, and bent over him with a look of
affectional interest.

"The vision so vividly impressed him that he employed his first
leisure moment in sketching the lovely face. At every touch and
line, his admiration grew more intense, until at length he could
scarcely keep the fair image from being ever prominent in his mind.
It haunted his day dreams, till he could scarcely conceal his
impatience to relate the strange vision to his mother and sister.
The fair one stood each night at his side, until the first day of
his vacation season arrived, and he left to pass its days at home.
When within a few miles of his destination, he saw the same face
before his waking vision. This time her features were sad, but not
less lovely. Indeed the air of melancholy gave the features a deeper
charm, and more strongly than ever he desired to reach his home, and
find, if possible, a solution of the strange apparition.

"At last the hills of his native town rose to his view; then the old
pines which sheltered his home. Soon he felt the warm tears on his
cheek, and the soft arms of his mother and sister around his neck.

"'Where is Reinhold?' he asked, after he had released himself from
their embrace.

"He is away to-day; gone to a fair, but will be back by supper time,
and bring his fair affianced.

"'Reinhold engaged!' exclaimed Conrad, in tones so strange that
Marie, his sister, turned pale. But his quick return to himself
assured her that he was not angry, as she supposed, only surprised;
and taking his proffered arm they walked together in the
garden-talking of old scenes and pleasures, till even the fair face
of his vision was forgotten, and he rested his eyes in tender,
brotherly love, on the fair girl at his side.

"They were in close conversation, so earnest, they did not hear the
approaching footsteps, when the well-known voice of his brother
called:

"'Welcome, Conrad; welcome home,' and the next instant a pair of
stout arms were around him.

"'I believe he is stronger than you, Con., with all your military
drills,' said Marie, laughing to see her brother trying to extricate
himself.

"'I am so glad you have come,' said Reinhold, 'I want you to see
your new sister,' then he called her from where she stood apart from
them, behind a clump of trees. Conrad's back was towards her when
she approached, and he turned, at his brother's words.

"'Miss Rosa,--Conrad, my brother,' and for the first time he looked
on the face that had so long haunted his dreams.

"'My God!' he said, 'It is the same,' and fell prostrate on the
ground.

"The poor girl flew to the house, laid her head on the shoulder of
Reinhold's mother, and wept bitterly. She, too, had seen his face in
her dreams, and supposed it an ideal which she should never meet.
She had seen it before she met Reinhold, and thought as she looked
on him, that he approximated somewhat to it, nearer then she even
hoped to see, and had grown day by day to love him, not as one ought
a lover, but tenderly like a brother.

"The deepest anxiety seized the good parents, and Marie, to fathom
the cause of Conrad's strange state. They carried him to the house,
where he lay insensible for hours, but once only his lips parted,
and then he breathed the name of 'Rosa,' in accents so tender, that
his brother, who stood bending over him, in agony of grief at his
state, flew from the room.

"In half an hour Conrad started as though shot, and rose from the
bed with blood-filled eyes, and wildest terror on his features. He
placed his hand upon his heart, and then sinking on his knees,
cried, imploringly, 'God forgive me; I have killed my brother!'

"'Go and call Reinhold, Marie,' said the affrighted father, 'and
prove to the poor boy that his brother is alive and well. O, what
has come over our happy home.'

"Marie flew from room to room; no Reinhold was to be found. Then to
the garden, calling his name at each step. A wild fear seized her
young heart; her brain grew giddy; yet on she went, calling again
and again his name. As though impelled by an unseen force, she flew
till she reached the edge of a wood, where herself and brothers had
played together. She went on. Something lay on the ground; an
object, she could not at first discover what. A cold chill run
through her frame. The blood seemed to stagnate in every vein, for
there, under an old oak, lay the lifeless body of Reinhold.

"She fainted, and fell. The cool air blew on her temples and
restored her to consciousness. She passed her hand over her
forehead, as though trying to recall some terrible dream,--and then
it all burst upon her mind, more fearful and appalling in its
rebound.

"'My mother, my father,' were the only words that broke from her
lips, and she went back, slowly, for the fright and agony had almost
paralyzed her brain and limbs.

"'You were gone a long time,' said her anxious parents, who did not
see her face when she entered; 'where is Reinhold?'

"She had no words. The deathly face, the beating heart, and the
trembling limbs, told all. She led them to the spot, and the mystery
appeared still deeper.

"Seven days Conrad lay in a raging fever. At their close, reason
returned, and they learned from him the vision which had so haunted
him, and wondered over the strange phase of life, in which action
had been involuntary, but dual.

"They buried Reinhold under the tree where he had shot himself, and
kept it covered with flowers, watered by tears.

"Poor Rosa returned to her home with her good parents, and pined
slowly away. Conrad held his brother's memory sacred, and never
breathed words of love to his affianced. 'She will be his in
Heaven,' he said, as he walked with his sister one day to his grave;
and when the Summer flowers faded they made another beside it, for
Rosa went to join Reinhold, and to guard, with tender love, Conrad
and Marie."

Krepsel rose from the chair. The hours were waning.

"We can have but one more," said the leader, "and from whom shall it
be?"

"From Berthhold," cried several voices.

"I have seen his eyes full of strange, weird tales to-night," said
one.

"I know by his far-off look he has something interesting to say,"
said another.

"Berthhold, take the chair," said the leader.

He rose, walked like one in a dream, took the seat, gazed a few
moments around, and then commenced:

"My story will be told in a few words. It is not of tradition, but
experience."

All eyes turned to the youth, whose face glowed with a strange
light, as he commenced.

"While sitting here to-night, listening to the story just narrated,
my eyes have seen something I never saw before, and I pray I may not
again see, at least until my nerves are stronger."

"What was it? What was it like?" they all cried together, while
Berthhold looked around the room, as though expecting the vision to
be repeated.

They were called to order by their leader, and he went on,--

"A soft, misty light filled the room, and rested at last just before
me. I strained my eyes to assure myself that I was not dreaming, and
looked upon all your faces to assure myself that I was of the earth,
and not a spirit. Then my eyes seemed to be fastened upon the light.
In vain I tried to remove them; I could not; and only hoped none of
you would notice me.

"Soon a face, radiant and fair, burst from the mist; one almost too
lovely to gaze upon. I was spellbound as I gazed, then the vision of
the face faded. I seemed to float away, far over the sea, and there
came before my sight a low, humble cot, whose walls offered no
resistance to my vision. They seemed like glass as I looked through
them, and saw sitting in a chair an old woman, wrinkled and faded,
her hair white as snow, but on her face a peace which gathers on
those who sleep the last sleep.

"I also felt conscious of another presence, but could not see any
one. Then all was dark again. I saw neither mist nor cot, but
something spoke to me. A voice whispered in my ear, 'Tell Milan I
forgive him.' That is the name of my mother's father."

"How strange," said the listeners, who had followed him closely to
the end.

"Does your grandfather still live?" inquired one.

"He was alive this morning, and is now, for aught I know."

The party were about to separate, when a messenger entered in great
haste, and called for Berthold, stating that his (Berthold's)
grandfather was very ill, and greatly desired his presence.

He was not long in answering the summons, leaving those who had
listened to his story wondering over it, which wonder was not a
little increased by this sudden call.

It was thought that the old gentleman was dying, but when Berthold
went and sat by his side he brightened up, and motioned for the
others to leave the room.

"I have been very ill," he said, grasping the hand of his grandson,
"and have had a terrible dream. For fear I may some day depart
suddenly, I wish to tell you of a portion of my early life, that you
may avoid the sin, and escape the suffering which I have endured."

He then related the wrong of his early years, in deluding a young
and pure girl, while loving another.

"Have you a picture of the one you allude to," asked Berthold.

His grandfather started as though a voice from the other world had
spoken to him.

"Why, how do you know that? No one but myself knows that I carry her
miniature about me."

"May I see it?" asked his grandson, not a little alarmed at the
excited manner of the sick man.

"Yes,--that is if no one knows it,--not even Laura. Mind, Berthold,
your grandmother knows nothing of this,--not a word."

Berthold's word was sacred, and the old man drew from his pocket an
oval case of blue velvet, ornamented with pearls.

"Here, look, and be quick; I fear some one may come; and if, if I
should die, Berthold, take this and keep it forever."

"I will," said the faithful boy, as he unclasped the case.

Was he dreaming? There, before him, was the same; yes, the very same
fair face he saw in the mist. He could not take his eyes from the
picture, so strange was the spell.

"I have seen this face to-night, grandfather," said Berthold, going
close to him, and laying his hand upon his brow.

"Seen what! seen her? Sibyl! O, God, she must have died."

He sank back exhausted on his pillow.

"Did it-did she speak?" he gasped, as he revived.

"Yes. She said, 'Tell Milan I forgive him!'"

"Berthold, Laura, quick! O come,--my breath is go-. I--am--dy--."

He, too, was gone; gone before his wife could be summoned; gone to
meet one he had so greatly wronged, perhaps to learn of her
beautiful truths, which her sad life experience had taught her; and
perchance to woo her soul, this time with truth and love.

Berthold kept the miniature, and when, after a few months, the club
met again, confirmed the truth of the story he had startled them
with that night. He could never account for the lowly cot, and the
old wrinkled woman, but he remembered his grandfather's dying words,
and never wooed where he knew he could not give his heart and soul;
nor was his vision ever again unfolded, but one of heaven's
choicest, purest women was given him to love, and in her high and
spiritual life, his soul grew to sense that which by sight he could
not obtain.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Three years had swept by, with their lights and shadows, bringing no
change to the house of Mr. Wyman, save the daily unfolding of Dawn's
character, and the deepening happiness of all.

Mr. Wyman had promised Dawn that when she was eighteen he would take
her to Europe.

Miss Vernon passed her time very happily, dividing it between
teaching, study, and labor, and found herself improving daily, both
spiritually and physically; indeed, such a change had come over her
whole nature, that she could scarce believe herself the same being
that entered Mr. Wyman's home, three years previous. Life opened
daily to her such rich opportunities for usefulness and growth, that
no day seemed long enough to execute her plans.

Mr. Temple, whom the reader will remember as one of the guests of
the party, came often to Mr. Wyman's, and soon found himself greatly
interested in Miss Vernon.

It was a new experience to her to contrast him with Hugh, and to
learn to analyze the new feeling which suffused her being,--that
deep, undercurrent which lies beneath all surface emotions and
interests, namely, Love.

How broad, deep and rich her being grew. How near and dear to her
now seemed Hugh, her friend and brother. How sharply were the lines
of their true relation defined,--a relation as pure as untrodden
snow. Her heart overflowed with thankfulness to the giver of all
good, who had brought her feet into such pleasant paths of peace.

In the same spot where ten years ago Mr. Wyman and fair Alice were
seated, sat Herbert Temple and Florence. The night was as fair and
cloudless, while the rustle of the trees alone broke the stillness.
Pale moonbeams rested at their feet, while words of love flowed
between them.

"I think I found my way to your heart the first evening I saw you,
for I felt my being thrill as though I had another life pulsing with
my own; am I right?"

She raised her eyes to his, and answered in words which he ever
treasured,--

"It was so, Herbert. I felt as though I was stepping from my own
confines; as though some strong hand had taken mine, and infused new
life into my being. It was when you played, Herbert, that I was
absorbed in your soul."

"It was you, Florence, who helped me to play. I felt and was
inspired by your interest, your appreciation, for no one can do such
things alone. I never play as I did that night, when alone. Now,
that I shall have you always to help, shall we not be happy?"

"O, Herbert, will these days last? Will love bind us the same in
years to come?"

"No, not the same; but deeper, holier, if we do not exhaust
ourselves by free ownership."

"You talk like Hugh," she said, resting her hand on his arm, and
looking out on the soft, still scene before them.

"I would I could talk like him. While I admit no oracles, I confess
I admire his views, and his life which is a perfect transcript of
his theories."

"He is a noble man, Herbert, and has done much towards my
development. I thought I loved him all I could, but since you have
come to my life, I feel nearer than ever to him."

"Such is the law, and beautiful it is, that true love expands our
being, while the opposite contracts it. Hugh's views at first seemed
wild, and rather disorderly, but close contact with the man, and
opportunities of knowing him, in public and private, have made me
acquainted with his worth. Love him always, Florence, and when I
take you to my home never fear that I shall not understand you need
to see him at times alone, for he will need you. You have been
friends, and friends need each other. I am not taking you from him
in soul and heart; I will but help you to give yourself to him, with
your being made richer by my love."

Florence had no words with which to thank him. She only nestled
closer to the heart which loved her so well.

"How lovely this night is," she said, breaking the long silence
which followed; "the stillness is so sacred, I would not for worlds
disturb it with a sound, even of the sweetest music."

"Your words give me much comfort, Florence, for long have I wanted
some one who could sympathize with me on that subject. To most
persons, sound alone is considered music; to me, a night like this
should not be jarred save by soft vibrations of aeolian strings. And
the same of beautiful scenery. I cannot bear to hear one burst forth
in song, for the landscape is to me, in itself, a Te Deum, a perfect
song of praise."

"I am made happy by your words, Herbert, for there are moments when
music seems to me to be so sadly out of place, that I feel almost
like crushing the instrument and performer together. And now may I
ask you, why the music of some performers gives me pain instead of
pleasure? I know, but I want your answer. We will take Miss York,
for instance; she is full of hearty, earnest life, robust and
strong. I know she plays in time and tune, and sings correctly, but
I feel all out of tune, and completely disharmonized when she
performs in my presence."

"I fully comprehend your feelings. I have had the same myself, and
my interpretation of it is that I cannot accept the music through
her organism; or, rather, her atmosphere being between the subject
and the auditor, the latter feels only time and sound, not music,
not the idea the composer designed to convey. Is not that it?"

"Exactly. After all, there are very few who are organized
sufficiently delicate to translate music."

"True, Florence; how many seek the glorious art, not for its
uplifting power, but as a means of display. Let us love it for the
good it does for mankind, and use it, not for the end, but as a
means, of enjoyment."

"I play but seldom, Herbert, dearly as I love it."

"I am not sorry to hear that. I think that greater good is obtained
by not being too much in its immediate sphere. Of course greater
mechanical skill is acquired by constant practice, but I know by my
own experience that when the soul has reached a certain height of
culture, the physical nature becomes subordinate to the spiritual,
and is controlled by it, because the two natures are then replete
with harmony, and the fullness of the one finds expression through
the other,--the hand moves in complete obedience to the spirit.
Dearly as I love music, I cannot hear or execute it too often. On
this I am pleased to see we agree. The air is growing chilly; we
will go in and sing one song before we part. What shall it be?"

"The Evening Song to the Virgin," she answered.

Seating himself at the instrument, he played the prelude soft and
low, then their voices mingled in that graceful, gliding song, as
only voices can mingle that are united in the harmony of love.

It filled the whole air with sweetness, and Hugh's senses revelled
in the holy spell, as he sat alone on the piazza, thinking of the
past, his lovely Alice, and the beautiful child which was left to
bless his years.

No other song followed; none could. Florence listened to the
retreating footsteps of her lover, and then sat in the moonlight to
think of her joys.

Howard Deane was weary. Life had not gone pleasantly with him, since
we introduced him to the reader. His business, so lucrative and once
full of interest, demanding his closest attention, now seemed of no
account. Existence had become to him a round of duties mechanically
performed. The very air was leaden, and void of life. He needed a
revivifying influence, something to invigorate him. His energies
languished, and there seemed no one to extend to him a helping hand,
as his wife was at deadly variance with those who could have given
him what he was so much in want of.

The fire had gone out on his domestic altar, for no trusting wife
sat there. She was dark and heavy in soul. They had become strangers
to each other, not by roaming, but by a too close relationship.

Mrs. Deane had returned only bodily to her home; her heart and mind
were on a sea of doubt, at the mercy of every wind and wave. No
ripple of love broke their long silence, as they sat together in
their home. They each felt lonely, and would have been far less so
apart. Mr. Deane at length broke the spell, by saying,--

"I am going to the mountains next week, Mabel; would you like to
go?"

"I am going home. Mother has sent for me. I may as well be there as
here; no one will miss me."

She had better have left the words unsaid, and saw it herself in the
dark, contracted brow of her husband, who replied,--

"I shall go alone. It is best I should. You can remain with your
parents the remainder of the season, for I shall not be back for
months," then abruptly left the room.

The words were as decisive as his manner. She felt she had gone too
far, and would have given worlds to retract. But it was too late; he
was now out of hearing.

What had come over their lives? They were treading a road thick with
dust, which rose at every step, soiling their once white garments.
Surely they needed a baptism to make them pure.

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