he wind on the quiet breast of
some far sea. None can say whence it comes or whither it blows; but
there it is, lashing the waters to a storm, so that they roll in thunder
all the long day through, throwing their white arms on high, as they
clasp at the evasive air, till the darkness that is death comes down and
covers them.

What is the interpretation of it? Why does the great wind stir the
deep waters? It does but ripple the shallow pool as it passes, for
shallowness can but ripple and throw up shadows. We cannot tell, but
this we know--that deep things only can be deeply moved. It is the
penalty of depth and greatness; it is the price they pay for the
divine privilege of suffering and sympathy. The shallow pools, the
looking-glasses of our little life, know nought, feel nought. Poor
things! they can but ripple and reflect. But the deep sea, in its
torture, may perchance catch some echo of God's voice sounding down the
driven gale; and, as it lifts itself and tosses its waves in agony, may
perceive a glow, flowing from a celestial sky that is set beyond the
horizon that bounds its being.

Suffering, or rather mental suffering, is a prerogative of greatness,
and even here there lies an exquisite joy at its core. For everything
has its compensations. Nerves such as these can thrill with a high
happiness, that will sweep unfelt over the mass of men. Thus he who is
stricken with grief at the sight of the world's misery--as all great and
good men must be--is at times lifted up with joy by catching some faint
gleam of the almighty purpose that underlies it. So it was with the Son
of Man in His darkest hours; the Spirit that enabled Him to compass out
the measure of the world's suffering and sin enabled Him also, knowing
their purposes, to gaze beyond them; and thus it is, too, with those
deep-hearted children of His race, who partake, however dimly, of His
divinity.

Thus, even in this hour of her darkest bitterness and grief, a gleam
of comfort struggled to Jess's breast just as the first ray of dawn was
struggling through the stormy night. She would sacrifice herself to her
sister--that she had determined on; and hence came that cold gleam
of happiness, for there is happiness in self-sacrifice, whatever the
cynical may say. At first her woman's nature had risen in rebellion
against the thought. Why should she throw her life away? She had as good
a right to this man as Bessie, and she knew that by the strength of her
o