metempsychosis. Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the
highest inspiration of Western thought.

"It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said;
"and they interpreted for Mr. Wordsworth the dream of his own soul."

"I know, Sophia. I lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." And
he recited in a low, intense voice,--

"'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:'"

"Oh, yes!" answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.

"Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.'"

And they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation.
Eternity was behind as before them. Soft impulses from moon and stars,
and from the witching beauty of lonely hills and scented garden-ways,
touched within their souls some primal sympathy that drew them close to
that unseen boundary dividing spirits from shadow-casting men. It is
true they rather felt than understood; but when the soul has faith, what
matters comprehension?

In the cold sweetness of the following dawn, the squire returned from
Up-Hill. "Barf is gone, Alice," were his first words.

"But all is well, William."

"No doubt of it. I met the rector on the hillside. 'How is Barf?' I
asked; and he answered, 'Thank God, he has the mastery!' Then he went on
without another word. Barf had lost his sight when I got there; but he
knew my voice, and he asked me to lay my face against his face. 'I've
done well to Sandal,--well to Sandal,' he muttered at intervals.
'You'll know it some day, William.' I can't think what he meant. I hope
he hasn't left me any money. I could not take it, Alice."

"Was that all?"

"When Steve came in he said something like 'Charlotte,' and he looked
hard at me; and then again, 'I've done well by Sandal.' But I was too
late. Ducie said he had been very restless about me earlier in the
afternoon: he was nearly outside life when I got there. We thought he
would speak no more; but about three o'clock this morning he called
quite clearly, '_Ducie, the abbot's cross_.' Then Ducie unlocked the oak
chest that stands by the bed-side, and took from it an ivor