es, the thoughts of trusted friends. From the
clouds looked forth a living eye, and in the sound of rustling leaf and
singing streamlet, spake the voices of human longing and human joy.

Her aunts had explained their position to Paula and she had responded by
expressing her determination to be a teacher. But they would not hear of
that at present, and while she waited their pleasure in the matter, she
did what she could to assist them in their simple home-life and daily
duties, lending her beauty to tasks that would have made the eyes of
some of her quondam admirers open with surprise, if only they could have
followed the action of her hands, after having once caught a glimpse of
the face that brightened above them. And so the summer months went by
and September came.

There was to be an entertainment in the village and Paula was to assist.
The idea had come from her aunt and was not to be rejected. In one of
the strange incomprehensible moods which sometimes came upon her at this
time, she had written a poem, and nothing would do but that she mast
read it before the assembled company of neighbors and friends, that were
to be gathered at the Squire's house on this gala evening. She did not
wish to do it. The sacred sense of possession passes when we uncover our
treasure to another's eyes, giving way to a lower feeling not to be
courted by one of Paula's sensitive nature. Besides she would rather
have poured this first outburst of secret enthusiasm into other ears
than these; but she had given her word and the ordeal must be submitted
to. There are many who remember how she looked on that night. She had
arrayed herself for the occasion, in the prettiest of her dresses, and
mindful of Ona's injunction, did not mar the effect of its soft and
uniform gray with any hint of extraneous color. The result was that they
saw only her beauty; and what beauty! A very old man, an early settler
in the village, who had tottered out to enjoy a last glimpse of life
before turning his aged face to the wall, said it made the thought of
heaven a little more real. "I can go home and think how the angels
look," said he in his simple, half-childish way. And no one contradicted
him, for there was a still light on her face that was less of earth than
heaven, though why it should rest there to-night she least of all could
have told, for her poem had to do with earth and its deepest passions
and its wildest unrest. It was a clarion blast, not a dr