ne shall feed them, and
shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all
tears from their eyes."

There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed vain and
sacrilegious after this sublimest language of revelation.

At length I said,--

"Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 'T is a sin to
mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has wiped away."

CHAPTER XVIII.

One week, and another week passed by, and every evening was as charming
as the first of the return of Ernest Linwood. In that fortnight were
compressed the social and intellectual joys of a lifetime. Music,
reading, and conversation filled the measure of the evening hours. Such
music, such reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I
had been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear mother, to
Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I had reason to think I
could read remarkably well; but I could not read like Ernest,--I never
heard any one that could. He infused his own soul into the soul of the
author, and brought out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat
like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. Mrs.
Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but
listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins
throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek.

"You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated
glance.

"Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the
passion of my soul."

"You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry," said he, with a
smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my language, "which is the
regal one, the passion of passions?"

"I can hardly imagine the existence of one without the other," I
answered, "their harmony is so entire; flowers are silent poetry, and
poetry is written music."

"And music?" he asked.

"Is the breath of heaven, the language of angels. As the voice of Echo
lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, when her beauteous
frame had vanished, so music remains to show the angel nature we have
lost."

I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion warmed my soul.

"Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, "and may well speak of the
magic of numbers. She has a portfolio, filled with papers written, like
Ezekiel's scroll, within and without. I wish you would let me g