affection was to be made, of whom but moderate expectation formed; but
towards whom my heart softened instinctively, and yearned with an
importunate gratitude, which I entreated Reason betimes to check.

"Do not let me think of them too often, too much, too fondly," I
implored: "let me be content with a temperate draught of this living
stream: let me not run athirst, and apply passionately to its welcome
waters: let me not imagine in them a sweeter taste than earth's
fountains know. Oh! would to God I may be enabled to feel enough
sustained by an occasional, amicable intercourse, rare, brief,
unengrossing and tranquil: quite tranquil!"

Still repeating this word, I turned to my pillow; and _still_ repeating
it, I steeped that pillow with tears.

CHAPTER XVII.

LA TERRASSE.

These struggles with the natural character, the strong native bent of
the heart, may seem futile and fruitless, but in the end they do good.
They tend, however slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, that
turn which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps, too often
opposes: they certainly make a difference in the general tenour of a
life, and enable it to be better regulated, more equable, quieter on
the surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze will fall.
As to what lies below, leave that with God. Man, your equal, weak as
you, and not fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence: take it to
your Maker--show Him the secrets of the spirit He gave--ask Him how you
are to bear the pains He has appointed--kneel in His presence, and pray
with faith for light in darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for
patience in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though perhaps not
_your_ hour, the waiting waters will stir; in _some_ shape, though
perhaps not the shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for
which it bled, the healing herald will descend, the cripple and the
blind, and the dumb, and the possessed will be led to bathe. Herald,
come quickly! Thousands lie round the pool, weeping and despairing, to
see it, through slow years, stagnant. Long are the "times" of Heaven:
the orbits of angel messengers seem wide to mortal vision; they may
enring ages: the cycle of one departure and return may clasp unnumbered
generations; and dust, kindling to brief suffering life, and through
pain, passing back to dust, may meanwhile perish out of memory again,
and yet again. To how many maimed and mourning millions is the f