MARHAM.

But, Oliver, I have been thinking of you, and what you had to bear.

AUBIN.

And which I am the better for. Yes, when I remember what I was, I am sure of my misfortunes having been messengers to me from God; for they were so exactly suited to do for my character what it wanted.

MARHAM.

And perhaps the greatest grace that came to you from God was willingness to know those messengers.

AUBIN.

Poverty came to me, and she said, "I must dwell with thee." And while I held the door of

my room half open, she was hideous and ragged,

and her voice was hoarse. But when I said to her, "Thou art my sister," her face looked divinely thoughtful, and there was that in her voice which went to my heart, and she was ragged no longer, nor yet gay, but like the angels, whom God so clothes. And through looking into her eyes, my sight was cleared. And so I first saw the majesty of duty, and that beauty in virtue which is the reflection of the countenance of God. For, before this, my eyes could see only what coarse worth there is in medals, and stars, and crowns, and in such character as gets itself talked of and apparelled in purple and fine linen.

MARHAM.

O Oliver!

AUBIN.

I was ambitious, uncle, once; very greatly so I was. And from my own knowledge, I know that pride is a fearful peril. I was a student, and truth was my business; but now it seems to me that I must have loved it basely, and for the fame of stamping it with my own name.

MARHAM.

Hardly so, Oliver. I am sure you judge yourself not justly. For the love of fame is not always lust of flattery, but something not unwise nor unhealthy. For fame is a great thing for a man; it is silence for him, when he wants to speak; it is a pulpit to preach from, more authoritative than an archbishop's throne; and it is affectionate attention from a multitude of hearers. Badly ambitious I do not think you could have been.

AUBIN.

My ardor was too much of a worldly fever, as I know by this; that when, time after time, Disappointment stepped between me and my object, he was like ice to my heart. But now I can embrace him as a friend; and I do hold him as a dear friend; and I bless God for his having found me. Though latterly I have known him by another than the mournful name by which he is called on earth.

MARHAM.

You have been afflicted, and it is a happy thing for you to feel that it has been good for you. As human creatures, we have all of us to suffer, and to have some of our dearest plans spoiled.

AUBIN.

And it is well; for if we could be half sufficient to ourselves, we should soon lose the secret sense of dependence upon God. We build our plans up about us, and so we shut out the sight of heaven, and very soon the thought of it, and we say to ourselves that we will be merry with the goods we shall have stored up with us. But some earthquake of Providence shakes our building, and overhead it is unroofed, and the walls of it give way. And then there is heaven to be seen again, and infinity is open round us, and the dews of the Divine grace can fall on us again, and again we feel ourselves at the mercy of God, to be spared from cold, and storms, and enemies. And so, among the ruins of our pride, we grow to be loving children of the Most High, instead of worldly creatures.

MARHAM.

And you have felt that. But now you will be able to tell me all your experiences; and you must, whenever they come into your mind.

AUBIN.

For some time I have wished to write a book

on the immortality of the soul, and if I had been well enough, I should have done it; for I think on that subject I could write as not many have done. I have been without a friend in the world. And that is a state in which a man knows whether he believes in God or not; for if he does, his soul craves God, in such a way as that almost he is seen in the clouds, and felt in the air and in the coming of thoughts into the mind. I have known the want of food, and, one whole winter, the want of warm clothing; and I have known what it is to need medical help, and not to have it, because unable to pay for it.

Have you?

MARHAM.

AUBIN.

Yes, I have. And in such circumstances, 1 know that life looks quite another thing to what it does to a man at ease.

MARHAM.

Poor Oliver! life must have looked stern to you, very stern.

AUBIN.

For a while it did, and then it grew sublime; for I saw God in it all. And, besides, there is in the soul an instinct of her having been made for a foreordained end, of her having been created for a special purpose, which only she herself can answer, and not any one other out of a

hundred million other souls. So the more lonely I was, and the poorer, and the more the pain in my forehead grew like the pressure of a crown of thorns, and the more I was an exception among men, so much the more I was persuaded of having a destiny of my own, and a peculiar one. And I said to myself, "What I am to be, I can suffer for, and I will." So as my lot in life grew strange, I had a trembling joy in it for the sake of what I thought must spiritually come of it. But, dear uncle! those tears, —I cannot bear them. Besides, I am happy now. And now our souls, yours and mine, have found one another.

MARHAM.

But to have suffered as you have, and been

alone

AUBIN.

Lonely I never was; indeed I was not.

And so were the souls of many saints, and heroes, and noble thinkers, men of like sufferings with my own.

MARHAM.

True saints and true heroes. But now, Oliver, tell me, were you never tempted to forego your scruples, and enter