world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaming angels, garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day. Tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable tears which weep away life itself, kindly given rest to deadly weariness, generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the sun, altars dedicated to the moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build nor lips consecrate; but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome—a temple whose floors are space—rites whose mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of worlds!

Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!

The daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and she came with comfort. “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep sweetly. I gild thy dreams.”

She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start. The rain was dashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory; day had already broken. How I pity those whom mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant’s gripe. How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like other dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.

Ere long the bell rang its reveille to the whole school. Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit and the air was warm. Through the rest of the house it was cold, with the nipping severity of a Continental winter. Though now but the beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry blight over Europe. I remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first came, but now I began to associate with them a sense of comfort, and liked them as in England we like a fireside.

Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules—prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying through the wilderness of the present; enjoining a reliance on faith, a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe while they illumine; hushing the impulse to fond idolatry; checking the longing outlook for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.

By degrees a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its throbbings, and made me fit for the day’s work. I lifted my head.

As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall between the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a window, looking also into the carré. As I looked up a cap-tassel, a brow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window. The fixed gaze of those two eyes hit right against my own glance; they were watching me. I had not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them now.

This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this outdoor, this male spy—what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted hour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class- bell rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims. There was some book of reference in