h met her ear
redoubled her curiosity.

To all three, therefore, this evening was to be what that other evening
had been for the pilgrims to Emmaus, what a vision was to Dante, an
inspiration to Homer,--to them, three aspects of the world revealed,
veils rent away, doubts dissipated, darkness illumined. Humanity in all
its moods expecting light could not be better represented than here by
this young girl, this man in the vigor of his age, and these old men,
of whom one was learned enough to doubt, the other ignorant enough
to believe. Never was any scene more simple in appearance, nor more
portentous in reality.

When they entered the room, ushered in by old David, they found
Seraphita standing by a table on which were served the various dishes
which compose a "tea"; a form of collation which in the North takes the
place of wine and its pleasures,--reserved more exclusively for Southern
climes. Certainly nothing proclaimed in her, or in him, a being with the
strange power of appearing under two distinct forms; nothing about her
betrayed the manifold powers which she wielded. Like a careful housewife
attending to the comfort of her guests, she ordered David to put more
wood into the stove.

"Good evening, my neighbors," she said. "Dear Monsieur Becker, you do
right to come; you see me living for the last time, perhaps. This winter
has killed me. Will you sit there?" she said to Wilfrid. "And you,
Minna, here?" pointing to a chair beside her. "I see you have brought
your embroidery. Did you invent that stitch? the design is very pretty.
For whom is it,--your father, or monsieur?" she added, turning to
Wilfrid. "Surely we ought to give him, before we part, a remembrance of
the daughters of Norway."

"Did you suffer much yesterday?" asked Wilfrid.

"It was nothing," she answered; "the suffering gladdened me; it was
necessary, to enable me to leave this life."

"Then death does not alarm you?" said Monsieur Becker, smiling, for he
did not think her ill.

"No, dear pastor; there are two ways of dying: to some, death is
victory, to others, defeat."

"Do you think that you have conquered?" asked Minna.

"I do not know," she said, "perhaps I have only taken a step in the
path."

The lustrous splendor of her brow grew dim, her eyes were veiled beneath
slow-dropping lids; a simple movement which affected the prying guests
and kept them silent. Monsieur Becker was the first to recover courage.

"Dear child," he said,