s should not deepen into anger. Not even
in her own family then must she have rest from the strife between her
inner and her outer life. Sympathy she must not have, since sympathy
with her was almost inseparably connected with reproach of Ernest. Time
had another lesson to teach, and Meeta soon learned it; that in a combat
such as she had to sustain, no half-way measures would suffice, that she
must not drive her griefs down to the depths of her heart, shutting them
there from every human eye, but she must drive them out of her heart. We
talk of feigning cheerfulness, of wearing a mask for the world and
throwing it off in solitude, and we may do this for a week, a month, a
year, but those who have a life-grief to sustain, from whose hearts hope
has died out, know that there are only two paths open to them in the
universe; to lie down in their despair and breathe out their souls in
murmurs against their GOD, and lamentations over their destiny; or,
humbly kissing the rod which has smitten them, to go forth out of
themselves, where all is darkness and woe, and find a new and happier
life in living for and in others. And thus did Meeta.

We may not linger over the details of the next few weeks of her
existence. The old Rainer died; died blessing his children, Ernest and
Meeta, and praying for their happiness. Often would Ernest have told him
all; but Meeta kept back a disclosure which would have given him pain.
"Do not disturb him now, Ernest," she said; "he will know all soon, and
bless your Sophie from heaven, where there is no sorrow."

Meeta returned home, and exhaustion won for her a few days rest; rest
even from her mental struggles; but when the funeral was over, and
things returned to their usual routine, she felt that she must prepare
her father and mother to receive Ernest in the character in which they
were henceforth to regard him. She found strength for this in her lofty
purpose and her simple dependence upon Heaven, and her voice did not
falter nor her color change as she said to her mother:--

"Do you not think Ernest is much altered?"

"Yes, he is greatly improved."

"Improved! Well, he may be so to the eyes of others, but--"

"Is he not as tender to you, my daughter?" asked the sensitive mother.

"That is not it," said Meeta, coloring for the first time: "we neither
of us feel as we once did; it was a childish folly to suppose that we
should. I have told Ernest that I could not fulfil our engagement,