e mind the mere life is
nothing."

"Is not allegory a very pretty way of telling such a story of the mind,
under the appearance of telling a story of a life?"

"Yes," said Margaret; "and that is the reason why so many like allegory.
There is a pleasure in making one's way about a grotto in a garden; but
I think there is a much higher one in exploring a cave on the sea-shore,
dim and winding, where you never know that you have come to the end,--a
much higher pleasure in exploring a life than following out an
allegory."

"You are a true lover of mystery, Miss Margaret. You should have lived
a thousand years ago."

"Thank you: I am very glad I did not. But why so long ago? Are there
not mysteries enough left?"

"And will there not be enough a thousand years hence?" said Hester.

"I am afraid not. You and I cannot venture to speak upon what the
Germans may be doing. But these two ladies can tell us, perhaps,
whether they are not clearing everything up very fast;--making windows
in your cave, Miss Margaret, till nobody will be afraid to look into
every cranny of it."

"And then our complaint," said Miss Young, "will be like Mrs Howell's,
when somebody told her that we were to have the Drummond light on every
church steeple. `Oh dear, ma'am!' said she, `we shall not know how in
the world to get any darkness.'"

"You speak as if you agreed that the Germans really are the makers of
windows that Mr Enderby supposes them," observed Margaret; "but you do
not think we are any nearer the end of mysteries than ever, do you?"

"Oh, no; not till we have struck our stone to the bottom of the
universe, and walked round it: and I am not aware that the Germans
pretend to be able to do that, any more than other people. Indeed, I
think there are as many makers of grottoes as explorers of caves among
them. What do you want, my dear?"

This last was addressed to George, whose round face, red with exertion,
appeared at a back window. The little girls were hoisting him up, that
he might call out once more, "Uncle Philip, be sure you remember not to
tell."

"It would be a pity that mysteries should come to an end," observed Mr
Enderby, "when they seem to please our human tastes so well. See there,
how early the love of mystery begins! and who can tell where it ends?
Is there one of your pupils, Miss Young, in whom you do not find it?"

"Not one; but is there not a wide difference between the love of making
mysteries, and