which
defieth Time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See this
well-shaped brow, where comliness Just passeth into reverence. Art
beautiful in my eyes, mother dear."

"And that is enough for me, my darling, 'Tis time you were in bed,
child. Ye have to preach the morn."

And Reicht Heynes and Catherine interchanged a look which said, "We two
have an amiable maniac to superintend; calls everything beautiful."

The next day was Sunday, and they heard him preach in his own church. It
was crammed with persons, who came curious, but remained devout. Never
was his wonderful gift displayed more powerfully; he was himself deeply
moved by the first sight of all his people, and his bowels yearned over
this flock he had so long neglected. In a single sermon, which lasted
two hours and seemed to last but twenty minutes, he declared the whole
scripture: he terrified the impenitent and thoughtless, confirmed the
wavering, consoled the bereaved and the afflicted, uplifted the heart
of the poor, and when he ended, left the multitude standing rapt, and
unwilling to believe the divine music of his voice and soul had ceased.

Need I say that two poor women in a corner sat entranced, with streaming
eyes.

"Wherever gat he it all?" whispered Catherine, with her apron to her
eyes. "By our Lady not from me."

As soon as they were by themselves Margaret threw her arms round
Catherine's neck and kissed her.

"Mother, mother, I am not quite a happy woman, but oh I am a proud one."

And she vowed on her knees never by word or deed to let her love come
between this young saint and Heaven.

Reader, did you ever stand by the seashore after a storm, when the wind
happens to have gone down suddenly? The waves cannot cease with their
cause; indeed, they seem at first to the ear to lash the sounding shore
more fiercely than while the wind blew. Still we are conscious that
inevitable calm has begun, and is now but rocking them to sleep. So it
was with those true and tempest-tossed lovers from that eventful night
when they went hand in hand beneath the stars from Gouda hermitage to
Gouda manse.

At times a loud wave would every now and then come roaring, but it was
only memory's echo of the tempest that had swept their lives; the storm
itself was over, and the boiling waters began from that moment to go
down, down, down, gently, but inevitably.

This image is to supply the place of interminable details that would be
tedious and