solemn assent.

"Of this world," she continued, "wherein is so much of beauty,
happiness, and love. And can that exist in the created which is not in
the Creator! Must not, therefore, the great Spirit of the Universe be a
Spirit of Love?"

"Your argument contradicts itself," was the desponding answer. "Can
_you_ speak thus--you, whose heart yet bleeds with recent suffering?"

"Suffering which my faith has changed into joy. Never until this hour
did I look so clearly from this world into the world of souls--never did
I so strongly feel within me the presence of God's spirit, a pledge for
the immortality of mine."

"Immortality! Alas, that dream! And yet," he added, looking at her
reverently, even with tenderness, "I could half believe that a life like
yours--so full of purity and goodness--can never be destined to perish."

"And can you believe in human goodness, yet doubt Him who alone can
be its origin? Can you think that He would give the yearning for the
hereafter, and yet deny its fulfilment? That he would implant in us
love, when there was nothing to love; and faith, when there was nothing
to believe?"

Harold seemed struck. "You speak plain, reasonable words--not like the
vain babblers of contradictory creeds. Yet you do profess a creed--you
join in the Church's service?"

"Because, though differing from many of its doctrines, I think its forms
of worship are pure--perhaps the purest extant. But I do not set up the
Church between myself and God. I follow no ritual, and trust no creed,
except so far as it is conformable to the instinct of faith--the inward
revelation of Himself which he has implanted in my soul--and to that
outward revelation, the nearest and clearest that He has ever given of
Himself to men, the Divine revelation of love which I find here, in the
life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, my Lord."

As she spoke, her hand rested on the Bible out of which she had last
read to her mother. It opened at the very place, and from it there
dropped the little book-marker which Mrs. Rothesay always used, one
worked by Olive in her childish days. The sight drew her down to the
helplessness of human woe.

"Oh, my mother!--my mother!" She bowed her head upon her knees, and for
some minutes wept bitterly. Then she rose somewhat calmer.

"I am going upstairs"---- Her voice failed.

"I know--I know," said Harold.

"She spoke of you: they were almost her last words. You will come with
me, frie