oughts to turn away from
Mercy; and, six months after her departure, he had loyally and lovingly
promised to be the husband of another. In Mercy's future he felt an
intense interest; he would never cease to watch over her, if she would let
him; he would guide, mould, and direct her, until the time came--he knew
it would come--when she had outgrown his help, and ascended to a plane
where he could no longer guide her. His greatest fear was lest, from her
overflowing vitality and keen sensuous delight in all the surface
activities and pleasures of life, the intellectual side of her nature
should be kept in the background and not properly nourished. He had
compelled her to study, to think, to write. Who would do this for her in
the new home? He knew enough of Stephen White's nature to fear that he,
while he might be an appreciative friend, would not be a stimulating one.
He was too dreamy and pleasure-loving himself to be a spur to others. A
vague wonder, almost like a presentiment, haunted his thoughts continually
as to the nature of the relation which would exist between Stephen and
Mercy. One day he wrote a long letter to Stephen, telling him all about
Mercy,--her history; her peculiarities, mental and moral; her great need
of mental training; her wonderful natural gifts. He closed his letter in
these words:--

"There is the making of a glorious woman and, I think, a true poet in this
girl; but whether she ever makes either will depend entirely upon the
hands she falls into. She has a capacity for involuntary adaptation of
herself to any surroundings, and for an unconscious and indomitable
loyalty to the every-day needs of every-day life, which rarely go with the
poetic temperament. She would contentedly make bread and do nothing else,
till the day of her death, if that seemed to be the nearest and most
demanded duty. She would be heartily faithful and joyous every day, in
intercourse with only common and uncultivated people, if fate sets her
among them. She seems to me sometimes to be more literally a child of God,
in the true and complete sense of the word 'child,' than any one I ever
knew. She takes every thing which comes to her just as a happy and good
little child takes every thing that is given to him, and is pleased with
all; yet she is not at all a religious person. I am often distressed by
her lack of impulse to worship. I think she has no strong sense of a
personal God; yet her conscience is in many ways morbid