nto the one and all. That which now speaks
to us from the open house of God, is a feeling so strangely made up of
memories of our childhood, universal philanthropy, the summer air, and
the notes of the organ, that we gladly allow it to produce its effect
upon us. But when we seriously reflect, it leads us away from, rather
than into ourselves. It draws us toward natures which have little in
common with us. We have often said, dearest, that mankind might be
divided into two great classes, those who strive toward what is
steadfast, calm, and limited, and those who never forget that every
thing is fleeting, and are only satisfied when they themselves are in
the current of the eternal stream. How could the piety of these two
classes be the same? When the former pass from the restless, ever
moving world, through a church door into their Sunday, where every
thing has remained the same from time immemorial, the inexpressible
appears before them confined within set forms, and for all new wants
and sorrows the same consolations are ready, which have soothed their
ancestors for a thousand years. How can it surprise us, that people who
find their salvation in remaining ever the same and prefer to stifle
certain instincts of the soul and mind, rather than be allured into the
illimitable, cannot understand us, whose piety is rooted in the
strength and boldness which in moments of enthusiasm, enable us to
burst the barriers that confine us, in order through presentments and
intuition, to grasp all space?"

"They do not know," said Leah gently, after a short pause, "how much
more courage and humility it requires, to confess that we cannot
recognize God, then to believe ourselves his pet children, in whose
ears He whispers the secret of the world, and thereby relieves from all
future care."

When they returned home in the evening and entered their cosy room,
they espied a letter lying on the desk. "I don't know why it is," said
Edwin, "but I fear this stranger which has crept in, will destroy the
pleasure of the last hours of vacation."

"Don't read it until to-morrow," pleaded Leah.

But Edwin had already opened the letter, and a smaller note fell out.
As Leah picked it up, he glanced at the signature of the large one.
"Doctor Basler," he read, and his light tone instantly grew sad. "A
letter from there--six closely written pages--strange, how far distant
it seems, all that transpired there, as if years had intervened; so
greatly