esent, unintelligible to you; or else determine the sense in which
you at present receive them; or, at all events, the different senses
between which you clearly see that you must choose. Make either your
belief, or your difficulty, definite; but do not go on, all through your
life, believing nothing intelligently, and yet supposing that your
having read the words of a divine book must give you the right to
despise every religion but your own. I assure you, strange as it may
seem, our scorn of Greek tradition depends, not on our belief, but our
disbelief, of our own traditions. We have, as yet, no sufficient clue to
the meaning of either; but you will always find that, in proportion to
the earnestness of our own faith, its tendency to accept a spiritual
personality increases: and that the most vital and beautiful Christian
temper rests joyfully in its conviction of the multitudinous ministry of
living angels, infinitely varied in rank and power. You all know one
expression of the purest and happiest form of such faith, as it exists
in modern times, in Richter's lovely illustrations of the Lord's Prayer.
The real and living death-angel, girt as a pilgrim for journey, and
softly crowned with flowers, beckons at the dying mother's door;
child-angels sit talking face to face with mortal children, among the
flowers;--hold them by their little coats, lest they fall on the
stairs;--whisper dreams of heaven to them, leaning over their pillows;
carry the sound of the church bells for them far through the air; and
even descending lower in service, fill little cups with honey, to hold
out to the weary bee. By the way, Lily, did you tell the other children
that story about your little sister, and Alice, and the sea?

LILY. I told it to Alice, and to Miss Dora. I don't think I did to
anybody else. I thought it wasn't worth.

L. We shall think it worth a great deal now, Lily, if you will tell it
us. How old is Dotty, again? I forget.

LILY. She is not quite three; but she has such odd little old ways,
sometimes.

L. And she was very fond of Alice?

LILY. Yes; Alice was so good to her always!

L. And so when Alice went away?

LILY. Oh, it was nothing, you know, to tell about; only it was strange
at the time.

L. Well; but I want you to tell it.

LILY. The morning after Alice had gone, Dotty was very sad and restless
when she got up; and went about, looking into all the corners, as if she
could find Alice in them, and at las