n the dark about
love."

"Would warning really be of no avail?"

"Of no more avail than warning to a pilgrim in the middle of the desert
that he will suffer from thirst, and be deluded by the mirage, before he
gets into green fields again. He has no longer the choice whether to be
a pilgrim in the desert or to stay at home. No one of us has the choice
to be or not to be; and we must go through with our experience, under
its natural conditions."

"`To be or not to be,'" said Margaret, with a grave smile. "You remind
one that the choice of suicide remains: and I almost wonder--Surely
suicide has been committed from dread of lighter woes than you have
described."

"I believe so: but in this case there is no dread. We find ourselves in
the midst of the struggle before we are aware. And then--"

"Ay, and then--"

"He, who appoints the struggles of the spirit, supplies aids and
supports. I fully believe that this time of conflict is that in which
religion first becomes to many the reality, for which they ever
afterwards live. It may have been hitherto a name, a fancy, a dim
abstraction, or an intermitting though bright influence: and it may yet
be resorted to merely as a refuge for the spirit which can find no
other. But there is a strong probability that it may now be found to be
a wonderful reality; not only a potent charm in sorrow, but the life of
our life. This is with many the reason why, and the mode in which, the
conflict is endured to the end."

"But the beginning," said Margaret; "what can be the beginning of this
wonderful experience?"

"The same with that of all the most serious of our experiences--levity,
unconsciousness, confidence. Upon what subject in the world is there a
greater accumulation of jokes than upon love and marriage; and upon what
subject are jokes so indefatigably current? A girl laughs at her
companions, and blushes or pouts for herself; as girls have done for
thousands of years before her. She finds, by degrees, new, and sweet,
and elevated ideas of friendship stealing their way into her mind, and
she laments and wonders that the range of friendship is not wider--that
its action is not freer--that girls may not enjoy intimate friendship
with the companions of their brothers, as well as with their own. There
is a quick and strong resentment at any one who smiles at, or speculates
upon, or even observes the existence of such a friendship."

"Oh, Maria!" exclaimed Margaret