miling
at Sara's simile. "Thus, then, if it be more frequently disorderly than
orderly, if the air be more frequently filled with dust than it is pure
and fresh, then the devil may dwell there, but not I! I know very well
that there are homes enough on earth where there are dust-filled rooms,
but that must be the fault of the inhabitants. On them alone depends the
condition of the house; from those which may not unjustly be called
ante-rooms of hell, to those again which, spite of their earthly
imperfections, spite of many a visitation of duster and dusting-brush,
yet may deserve the names of courts of heaven. And where, Sara, where in
this world will you find an existence free from earthly dust? And is
that of which you complain so bitterly anything else than the earthly
husk which encloses every mortal existence of man as well as of
woman?--it is the soil in which the plant must grow; it is the chrysalis
in which the larva becomes ripe for its change of life! Can you actually
be blind to that higher and nobler life which never developes itself
more beautifully than in a peaceful home? Can you deny that it is in the
sphere of family and friendship where man lives most perfectly and best,
as citizen of an earthly and of a heavenly kingdom? Can you deny how
great and noble is the efficacy of woman in private life, be she married
or single, if she only endeavour----"

"Ah," said Sara, interrupting him, "the sphere of private life is too
narrow for me. I require a larger one, in order to breathe freely and
freshly."

"In pure affection," replied the Judge, "in friendship, and in the
exercise of kindness, there is large and fresh breathing space; the air
of eternity plays through it. In intellectual development--and the very
highest may be arrived at in private life--the whole world opens itself
to the eye of man, and infinite treasures are offered to his soul, more,
far more, than he can ever appropriate to himself!"

"But the artist," argued Sara--"the artist cannot form himself at
home--he must try himself on the great theatre of the world. Is his bent
only a chimera, my father? And are those distinguished persons who
present the highest pleasures to the world through their talents; to
whom the many look up with admiration and homage; around whom the great,
and the beautiful, and the agreeable collect themselves, are they
fools?--are they blind hunters after happiness? Ah, what lot can well be
more glorious than their