t by the open window, lost to everything except the
mystery of music and light being woven before her. It was creation's
morn again, at which the child's wondering eyes were gazing. Again the
divine Fiat had gone forth, "Let there be light." And, moving in
stately march to the grand processional, slowly, majestically the light
was coming. Softly, almost imperceptibly, the phantom world took
shape, and grew clearer as the stars grew paler. Here a bush detached
itself from its gray background, yonder a tree grew up tall and
stately, there the curve of a hillock swelled up from a dark valley.
And as each growing maple or cedar or alder-bush took shape, from its
depths there awoke a sleepy little murmur, swelling into a rapturous
song and melting away again into the great anthem. Away down the dim
lane, near the edge of the pond, stood a noble elm, its topmost branch
towering into the gray heavens, its lower limbs sweeping the earth. As
it gradually detached itself from the grayness and came forth beautiful
and stately, there arose from its heart the musical accompaniment to
its birth--not a sleepy little murmur, such as befitted a sumach or a
bramble, but a loud, clarion note, one wild shout of joy--and out
poured the ecstasy of a robin's song. There was a storm of music on
all sides now, a splendid fortissimo, keeping pace with the growing
light. Elizabeth, suddenly mindful of former sunrises, leaned far out
to look towards the east, holding her breath. Over there might be
glories that were not lawful for men to look upon, much less utter.
And, yes, there was a great wonder there, no sun's rays as yet, no
daylight even, but behind the black trees of Arrow Hill there shone a
luminous crystal glow, a light more heart-moving than if the sun had
risen in all his pomp of purple and gold. There was an awe, a mystery
about this transparent clearness, a great promise of unspeakable
glories to come. Elizabeth drew a long breath. She was but a child,
perfectly unconscious and unthinking in all that she said and did, but
she had a heart capable of being strongly moved by any hint of the
Infinite. She did not guess why, did not even imagine the reason, but
the tears came to her eyes with a smarting sting, and with them that
feeling of overwhelming joy that was half-pain, the feeling that rushed
over her so often when her father read some sublime passage from the
Scriptures.

One came to her now from the psalm of the nig