ad a
cup of tea by the parlor fire, and as they were drinking it and
talking over the events of the day, Professor Snowdon came in.

"Well, well!" he cried, rubbing his hands gleefully, "the great
performance is over; and it is evident the modern bride and bridegroom
profit by the old stage direction: '_Flourish of trumpets! Alarum!
Exeunt!_'" Then he looked at Peter, who was Miss Alida's guest for the
night, and Adriana said: "This is my father, Professor."

"I am glad to see you, sir. What were you talking of? Do not let me
interrupt the conversation."

"I was talking, as old men will talk, of their youth, and of my own
marriage in the old Dutch kirk at Woodsome."

"I thought so. I meet many old men, and all of them, no matter how
successful their later years have been, like best of all to talk of
their life in childhood and early youth upon some farm; to recall the

'--whistling boys and lowing cows,
And earthy sounds of cleaving ploughs;'

or the

'Youthful love and maidens gay,
And bliss that found its wedding day,'

and when they do so, a different look comes into their faces, and
their laugh grows young again--that is the strange thing. And I
myself, I too, remember love in my sweet youth."

"If any one has ever loved," said Peter, "he cannot forget. Nothing
goes to heaven but love."

"Is it not heaven? We have a way of inferring that heaven is far off
and walled in, but really all eternal things are so very near to us
that a single step, a sudden 'accident' brings the disembodied spirit
into an immediate recognition of them."

"Then," said Harry, clasping Adriana's hand, "let us live now, for
time is short."

"No, sir," answered the Professor, promptly, "man has forever."

"If in spiritual things, we could only see with our eyes and hear with
our ears!" said Miss Alida.

"And if so, madame, what grace would there be in believing?"

"Who does believe?" asked Harry. "The great German philosopher,
Frederick Gotfield, says, all religions are alike dead, and there is
no faith left in the heart of man; no, nor yet capacity for faith."

"Well, Mr. Filmer, the disciple is not above his master. If you sit at
the feet of Mr. Frederick Gotfield, you cannot rise above his doubts
and scoffing."

"Harry does not sit at the feet of any such master, sir," explained
Adriana.

"I am glad of it; for Mr. Gotfield is not in search of salvation; his
way leads--but we will not talk of him. Oh, for a ge