. Mr. Clifton volunteered to accompany us.

"The Deacon's cider-mill is smoking after all this drenching!" exclaimed
Mrs. Widesworth.

"The torches of the Bacchantes, when flung into the Tiber, were said
still to burn," observed Professor Owlsdarck, after rummaging about a
little for an historical parallel. "And here we seem to find a point
where the modern enthusiasm for water and the ancient fervor for wine
tend to like results."

Colonel Prowley was peculiarly interested,--so much so, indeed, that he
shook hands with us absently. Mrs. Widesworth was profuse in entreaties,
and then in hearty farewells.

We walked up the street.

A spring freshness was in that autumn evening. The air was purified by
the storm, as society is purified after a tempestuous feeling has blown
through it.

I think that both of her companions felt abased by the vivid faith which
sparkled in Miss Hurribattle's conversation. We were both rebuked by her
life-effort for what was high and positive and real. The clergyman,
examining the depths of his own sensitive spirit, felt keener contempt
for that theoretical good-will, that indefinite feeling of profound
desire, which might not be concentrated upon any reality. And it came
over me, how mean was the thirst and struggle for a merely professional
eminence which filled my common days. As in a mental _mirage_, which
loomed above the thickening twilight, I saw how our paths diverged, and
whither each must surely tend. No doubtful way was hers, the
single-hearted woman of lofty aims, of restless feminine activity, of
holy impatience with sin. She might, indeed, miss the clue which guides
through the labyrinth; but then her life would teach mankind even better
than she designed. On the other hand,--supposing the position attained
which too constantly occupied my own thoughts,--there was an admiration
of men, a market-salutation from reputable Commonplace, a seat in a
fashionable church, a final lubrication with a fat obituary,--and then?
But it was no part of my design to invite the reader into the inner
chambers of my own personality, and I forbear.

After a half-mile walk, we left Miss Hurribattle, and turned our steps
towards the parsonage.

"I sometimes feel that her instinct reasons more accurately than my poor
logic," said Clifton, bitterly; "yet it is a hard necessity to sacrifice
our individual faculties of comparison and judgment for the
working-power of a fervid organization!"

"N