erence between life and death. The words of the Earl had been used
as a seed of life, and the life was growing. It is the necessity of
life to grow, and it is an impossibility that death should appreciate
life.

"Well!" was the Dame's conclusion, delivered as she rose from the stone
bench, in a perplexed and disappointed tone, "I reckon thou wilt be like
to take thine own way, child, for I cannot make either head or tail of
thy notions. Only I do hope thou wilt not set up to be unlike everybody
else. Depend upon it, Clarice, a woman never comes to no good when she
sets up to be better than her neighbours. It is bad enough in anybody,
but 'tis worser in a woman than a man. I cannot tell who has stuck thy
queer notions into thee--whether 'tis thy Lord, or thy lover, or who;
but I would to all the saints he had let thee be. I liked thee a deal
better afore, I can tell thee. I never had no fancy for philosophy and
such."

"Mother," said Clarice softly, "I think it was God."

"Gently, child! No bad language, prithee." Dame La Theyn looked upon
pious language as profanity when uttered in an unconsecrated place.
"But if it were the Almighty that put these notions into thy head, I
pray He'll take 'em out again."

"I think not," quietly replied Clarice.

And so the scene closed. Neither had understood the other, so far, at
least, as spiritual matters were concerned. But in respect to the
secular question Dame La Theyn could enter into Clarice's thoughts more
than she chose to allow. The dialogue stirred within her faint
memories--not quite dead--of that earlier time when her tears had flowed
for the like cause, and when she had felt absolutely certain that she
could never be happy again. But her love had been of a selfish and
surface kind, and the wound, never more than skin-deep, had healed
rapidly and left no scar. Was it surprising if she took it for granted
that her daughter's was of the same class, and would heal with equal
rapidity and completeness? Beside this, she thought it very unwise
policy to let Clarice perceive that she did understand her in any wise.
It would encourage her in her folly, Dame La Theyn considered, if she
supposed that so wise a person as her mother could have any sympathy
with such notions. So she wrapped herself complacently in her mantle of
wisdom, and never perceived that she was severing the last strand of the
rope which bound her child's heart to her own.

"O, purblind r