orning hour. The master rose and motioned me to follow
him.

"Richard Clyde is forgiven. Tell him so. Let the past be forgotten, or
remembered only to make us wiser and better."

We entered the academy together, to the astonishment of the pupils, who
were gathered in little clusters, probably discussing the events of
yesterday.

Richard Clyde was not there, but he came the next day, and the scene in
which we were both such conspicuous actors was soon forgotten. It had,
however, an abiding influence on me. A new motive for exertion was born
within me,--affection for my master,--and the consequence was, ambition
to excel, that I might be rewarded by his approbation.

Bid he ever again treat me with harshness and severity? No,--never. I
have often wondered why he manifested such unusual and wanton disregard
of my feelings then, that one, only time. It is no matter now. It is a
single blot on a fair page.

Man is a strangely inconsistent being. His soul is the battle ground of
the warring angels of good and evil. As one or the other triumphs, he
exhibits the passions of a demon or the attributes of a God.

Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand? What were the
plains of Marathon, the pass of Thermopylae, or Cannae paved with golden
rings, compared to it?

Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment of struggle, but
the pause that succeeds. The angels of good have triumphed, and though
the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as
no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests
upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled
under feet. Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes
from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest,
those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, that one can
almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of
heaven.

Is this poetry? Is it sacrilege? If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer
of thought,--"my spirit would fain not wander from thee."

CHAPTER VI.

The life of a school-girl presents but few salient points to arrest the
interest. It is true, every day had its history, and every rising and
setting sun found something added to the volume of my life. But there
seems so little to describe! I could go on for ever, giving utterance to
thoughts that used to crowd in my young brain, thoughts that would
startle as well as