least, not oblige us to be separated. When I saw his first
returning smile,--that poor, wan, feeble smile!--and more than four
weeks we watched him night and day, before we saw it,--new resolution
dawned in my heart. I resolved to live, day by day, hour by hour, for
his dear sake. So, if he is only treasure lent,--if he too must go, as
sweet Waldo, Pickie, Hermann, did,--as all _my_ children do!--I shall
at least have these days and hours with him."

How intolerable was this last blow to one stretched so long on the
rack, is plain from Margaret's letters. "I shall never again," she
writes, "be perfectly, be religiously generous, so terribly do I need
for myself the love I have given to other sufferers. When you read
this, I hope your heart will be happy; for I still like to know that
others are happy,--it consoles me." Again her agony wrung from
her these bitter words,--the bitterest she ever uttered,--words of
transient madness, yet most characteristic:--"Oh God! help me, is
all my cry. Yet I have little faith in the Paternal love I need, so
ruthless or so negligent seems the government of this earth. I feel
calm, yet sternly, towards Fate. This last plot against me has been
so cruelly, cunningly wrought, that I shall never acquiesce. I submit,
because useless resistance is degrading, but I demand an explanation.
I see that it is probable I shall never receive one, while I live
here, and suppose I can bear the rest of the suspense, since I have
comprehended all its difficulties in the first moments. Meanwhile,
I live day by day, though not on manna." But now comes a sweeter,
gentler strain:--"I have been the object of great love from the
noble and the humble; I have felt it towards both. Yet I am _tired
out_,--tired of thinking and hoping,--tired of seeing men err and
bleed. I take interest in some plans,--Socialism for instance,--but
the interest is shallow as the plans. These are needed, are even
good; but man will still blunder and weep, as he has done for so many
thousand years. Coward and footsore, gladly would I creep into some
green recess, where I might see a few not unfriendly faces, and where
not more wretches should come than I could relieve. Yes! I am weary,
and faith soars and sings no more. Nothing good of me is left except
at the bottom of the heart, a melting tenderness:--'She loves much.'"

CALM AFTER STORM.

Morning rainbows usher in tempests, and certainly youth's romantic
visions had pre