zing as, for a time, that of a true daughter
upon the departure, which at first she feels as the loss, of a true
parent; but through the rifts of such heartbreaks the light of love
shines clearer, and where love is, there is eternity: one day He who is
the Householder of the universe, will begin to bring out of its treasury
all the good old things, as well as the better new ones. How true must
be the bliss up to which the intense realities of such sorrows are
needful to force the way for the faithless heart and feeble will! Lord,
like Thy people of old, we need yet the background of the thunder-cloud
against which to behold Thee; but one day the only darkness around Thy
dwelling will be the too much of Thy brightness. For Thou art the
perfection which every heart sighs toward, no mind can attain unto. If
Thou wast One whom created mind could embrace, Thou wouldst be too small
for those whom Thou hast made in Thine own image, the infinite creatures
that seek their God, a Being to love and know infinitely. For the
created to know perfectly would be to be damned forever in the nutshell
of the finite. He who is His own cause, alone can understand perfectly
and remain infinite, for that which is known and that which knows are in
Him the same infinitude.

Faber came to see Dorothy--solemn, sad, kind. He made no attempt at
condolence, did not speak a word of comfort; but he talked of the old
man, revealing for him a deep respect; and her heart was touched, and
turned itself toward him. Some change, she thought, must have passed
upon him. Her father had told her nothing of his relation to Amanda. It
would have to be done some day, but he shrunk from it. She could not
help suspecting there was more between Faber and him than she had at
first imagined; but there was in her a healthy contentment with
ignorance, and she asked no questions. Neither did Faber make any
attempt to find out whether she knew what had passed; even about Amanda
and any possible change in her future he was listless. He had never been
a man of plans, and had no room for any now under the rubbish of a
collapsed life. His days were gloomy and his nights troubled. He dreamed
constantly either of Amanda's mother, or of Juliet--sometimes of both
together, and of endless perplexity between them. Sometimes he woke
weeping. He did not now despise his tears, for they flowed neither from
suffering nor self-pity, but from love and sorrow and repentance. A
question of t