The years passed by and left Dawn steadily and peacefully doing her
work, giving men and women each day extended views of life and deeper
consciousness of their own powers. By the aid of friends and her father,
she had succeeded in establishing a home for orphans, of both sexes, in
a wild and beautiful locality, where all the varied faculties of their
minds could expand. All were required to work a certain number of hours
each day; then study and recreation followed. She became daily firmer
in her belief that bringing the sexes together was the only way to
make them pure and refined. Their labors in the garden and field were
together; as also were their studies and lessons. There was a large
hall, decorated with wreaths and flowers, where they met every evening
and sang, danced, and conversed, as they were disposed; while each day
added to their number. The boys were trained in mechanical as well as
in agricultural pursuits, and it was pleasing to witness their daily
growing delicacy of deportment towards the other sex, as well as the
tone of love and sympathy which was growing stronger between them.
Dawn did not succeed in her effort at once; the majority laughed at and
ridiculed her plan, but faithful to her inspiration, she continued on,
and a few years witnessed the erection of a large, substantial building
among the tall pines and spreading oaks. Parents who had passed “over
the river,” came and blest her labors for their children; and they who,
though living on earth, had left their offspring uncared for, wept
when they heard of the happy home among the verdant hills, where their
children were being taught the only religion of life-the true art of
living.
The leading idea and aim was to educate these children into a harmonious
life, and to preserve a proper balance of the physical and mental by an
equal exercise of both. The result of her efforts was most gratifying
and encouraging to Dawn. Her success was apparent to all, even to
those who at first sneered at her course. The mutual respect which
was manifest among them; the quick, discerning minds, and the physical
activity; the well-cultured fields, the beautiful lawns, the gardens
brilliant and fragrant with flowers, the neatly arranged rooms, the
books, the pictures and the various means of study, amusement and
exercise: and around all, the gentle and loving spirit of Dawn, hovering
like a halo of heavenly protection, combined to form a scene which no
one could fail to admire. It taught one lesson to all, and that was:
make children useful and you will make them happy.
Basil and his sister came often to the home, where Dawn seemed to
preside like a guardian angel. It had been the wish of their lives
to see such a home for orphans, a wish they never expected to see
fulfilled. They gave largely to its support, and were never happier than
when within its walls. Mrs. Dalton, whom the world pitied so generously,
here found her sphere, as did many others who had felt long unbalanced.
She taught the children music, drawing, and the languages, and extended
her life and interest throughout the dwelling, to every heart therein.
Thus the maternal was satisfied each day, and each hour she felt less
need of a union which the wise world predicted she would enter into by
the time her divorce was granted. Beatrice came and took Dawn's place
whenever she wished to go to her home to refresh herself in the abiding
love of her father and mother.
“I never thought sich a beautiful thing could be on airth,” said Aunt
Polly Day, one of the eldest of the town's people, to Dawn, the first
time that she met her after the “home” was established. “Seems as though
the angels had a hand in't, child, and only ter think, you're at the
head o'nt. Why, I remember the night, or it was e'en-a-most day though,
that you was born. Beats all natur how time does fly. It may be I shan't
get out ter see yer home fer them e'er little orphans, in this world,
but may be I shall when I goes up above. Do you s'pose the Lord gives us
sight of folks on airth, when we're there, Miss Wyman?”
“I know he does. I feel that I have been helped by the angels to do this
great work.”
“Well, it's a comfortin' faith, to say the least on 't; and I don't care
how much you and your pa has been slandered. I believe yer good folks,
and desarving of the kingdom.”
“I suppose no one ever feels worthy of the kingdom, Aunty; but we all
know that if we seek the good and the true, that we shall find rest here
and hereafter.”
“Them's my sentiment, and I don't see how folks make you out so ungodly,
if livin' true, and bein' kind to the poor is unrighteousness, then give
me the sinners to dwell among. Think of all the things yer pa has given
me, all my life, and there's old Deacon Sims won't take one cent off of
his wood he sells me, when the Lord has told him in the good book to be
kind to the widow and fatherless. He makes long prayers 'nough, though.
Well, I s'pose he has ter kinder reach out to heaven that way, and make
up in words what he lacks in deeds.”
“He will make it all up, Aunty, when he has passed into the other life,
and becomes conscious how little he has done here.”
“May be; but it's like puttin' all the week's work inter Sat'day night.
I reckon he'll have to work smart to make up.”
Dawn could but smile at the quaint, but shrewd remark, and slipping a
generous gift of money into the hand of the old lady, departed to spend
her last evening with her father, and Herbert, who was now with them
every evening, before going to her home among the hills.
How still and white his face looks, thought Dawn, as Herbert, at their
request, seated himself at the instrument to play. One long, rapt,
upturned gaze, and then the fingers stole over the keys.
Was it the music of the air, or some being of the upper realms breathing
on him, infusing his soul with sound, that caused him to produce such
searching tones, and send them quivering through the souls of the
listeners? Now, moaning like the winds and waves; now, glad as though
two beings long separated, had met. Then the song grew sweeter, softer,
mellower, till every eye was flowing; on and on, more lovely and
imploring till one could only think that
“The angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.”
The strains died away. Herbert sank back and spoke not; but on the
white, uplifted face they read that an angel had been with him, one of
the upper air. No words broke the stillness of that atmosphere; not a
breath stirred its heavenly spell.
Without speech they separated, and the hallowed sweetness of that hour
remained with them in their dreams, which came not to either until long
after midnight.
From her own experience, Dawn saw that Herbert must mingle more with
people, and become interested in life. She knew that it would not be
well for him to think too much of the one whom the world pronounced
gone, but who had come nearer than any earthly relation known.
“Come to my mountain home, and see my family,” she said to him the next
morning, at parting.
He partly promised by words, but his air of abstraction indicated that
he had no intention of so doing.
What was that look which flashed over her features just then? Surely,
the expression of his own dear Florence, pleading for something.
“I will come, Dawn, and very soon,” he said, this time decisively.
Dawn's face lit up with another joy beside her own, as she pressed his
hand and bade him good bye.
Not many weeks elapsed before Herbert fulfilled his promise to visit the
Home. A murmuring sound of voices fell upon his ears as he approached
the dwelling, and as he came nearer, the beautiful air of “Home” touched
his heart with a new sweetness. The children were singing their evening
hymn. Just as he stepped upon the portico the song ceased, and Dawn came
gliding from the hall.
“Herbert! Welcome!” she exclaimed, with such an expression upon her face
that no words were needed to tell him how glad she felt at his coming.
In her own little sitting room she had his supper brought, which he
seemed to enjoy greatly, and then they walked in the garden till the dew
hung heavy on the grass.
The days went by, and still he lingered. It was life to him to see
so many children happy through labor and usefulness. Soon a desire to
benefit them in some way took possession of his mind, and it was not
long before he had so won their love by songs and stories of travel and
history, that the evening group was not considered perfect without Mr.
Temple, or “Uncle Herbert,” as a few of the youngest ventured to call
him.
How childhood, youth, and age need each other's companionship. How
perfect is the household group which includes them all, from the infant
to the white-haired sire. Homes without children! Heaven help those who
have not the sunshine of innocent childhood to keep them fresh-hearted.
Through this sphere of life and love, he found his life revived.
Gradually the sorrow-clouds passed away, fringed by the sunshine of hope
which was rising in his breast.
Dawn was his strength and counsellor every day. Through her he learned
how closely we are related to the other life, and yet how firmly we must
hold our relation to this, that we may become instruments for good, and
not mere sensitives, feeling keenly human wants, but doing nothing to
supply them.
“I intend to devote myself to life, and help the human family in some
way,” he said to Dawn one evening, as the twilight was robing itself
in purple clouds. “I have caught my inspiration from you, and will no
longer moan my days away. My treasures lie beyond, and I will strive
to make myself worthy of the union when I am permitted to go over the
silent stream.
“Do,” answered Dawn, “and thus make her life richer and happier.”
“I make her happier? Has she not gone to rest?”
“A kind of rest, I know; but does she not still live and mingle her life
with yours each day? Therefore, whatever the quality of your thought and
action is, she must partake of it, and for the time absorb it into her
spirit. If your life is vague and full of unrest, her life will become
so. On the contrary, if yours is strong and full of purpose, you give
her strength and rest of soul.”
“Is it so? Are we so united after death?”
“What part of Florence died, Herbert? The spirit passed out, carrying
every faculty, every sense and emotion, to that land where many dream
that we lose all consciousness of life, below, and remain in some blest
state of dreamy ease. Not so. Our lives at death, so called, are made
more sensitive to all we owe our friends on earth, and death is but the
clasp that binds us closer.”
“Your words stimulate me to labor and make my dear ones happy through my
life. O, that like you, I could know that they at times are with me; or,
rather, that they could come and give me that evidence I so much need,
of their presence and their power to commune with us.”
“I could not bring to you that evidence, because I know them and you,
but I have a lovely girl who has just come to our Home, a stranger to
you and to myself, who has this gift of second-sight, and if you wish, I
will present her to you.”
“Do so, for nothing would give me more happiness.”
A young girl, with light hair, and blue eyes which ever seemed looking
far away, was led into the sitting room by Dawn, and stood silent and
speechless as soon as she had entered. Her outer senses seemed closed,
as she spoke in a voice full of feeling these words:
“Be comforted, I am here; thy wife, Florence, and thy little ones. The
grave has nought of us you hold so dear. Believe, and we will come. I
whispered a song to your soul one night, and your fingers gave it words.
Farewell, I will come again; nay, I go not away from one I love so
well. 'T is Florence speaks to Herbert, her husband, from over the river
called Death.”
The child looked wonderingly around, then wistfully to Dawn, who
motioned her to the door, that she might join her companions.
“Is she always thus successful?” asked Herbert, after a long silence.
“No. I have often known her to fail; but when the impression comes, it's
invariably correct.”
“Wonderful child. How can you educate her, and yet have her retain this
strange gift?”
“I obey my impressions, and allow her to play a great deal. She cannot
follow her class, therefore I teach her alone, short, easy lessons, and
never tax her in any way, physically or mentally.”
“You must love her very much; I long to see more of her wonderful
power.”
“You shall; but the hour is late, I must now send my children to bed and
happy dreams.”
There was soon a cessasion of the voices, and cheerful “good-nights”
echoed through the dwelling. When all was still, Dawn came and sat by
him, and long they talked of the land of the hereafter, and its intimate
connection with this life, so fraught with pain and pleasure.