Threads of silver shot through Dawn's silken hair, yet she grew more
beautiful as the years matured her. The children under her care grew to
be young men and women, and went out into the world qualified to live
harmonious lives. She had taught them the true religion of life; had
impressed upon their minds the importance of enjoying this life, that
they might be prepared to enjoy the life that follows it; that to be
happy now is to be happy forever, for the present is always ours, the
future never.
“I have one wish more,” she said to her friend, Miss Bernard.
“And pray tell me what modest ambition you have just now?”
“It is one I have long cherished. I wish to see a hospital for invalids
erected within sight of this Home.”
“You are so successful in seeing your wishes ultimated, I shall expect
to see one in a few months.”
“I should be glad to see a good list of names with generous
subscriptions by that time. I think if all the extra plate and jewelry
of wealthy families, articles which do them no good, or rather the
surplus (for the beautiful in moderation ever does us good) were sold,
and the money given to such an object, very much might be done. I see,
when I come in contact with people, the great need that exists for an
institution where patients can be surrounded with all that is lovely and
artistic, and their spiritual and physical needs attended to. Many need
only change of magnetism and conditions, with the feeling that they have
a protecting care around them, to change the whole tone of the system.
Others are weak, have lost mental stamina, and need the tonic of
stronger minds; while some need tenderness and love, and to be treated
like weary children. Many would need no physical ministration direct,
but spiritual uplifting, which would in time project its force through
the mental, and harmonize the body. There are many such cases.”
“True, I know we need such an institution to meet those wants which you
have so faithfully sketched; and if a few earnest men and women work
for that end, may we not hope to see it accomplished, and the blue dome
rising somewhere among these hills? I will contribute my part, and give
a good portion of my time for its accomplishment.”
“If all felt as you do we might surely see it in our day; but we will
hope that the need will develop such a place, for the need is but an
index pointing to the establishment of such an institution.”
“I have often wondered if cases of insanity might not be treated more
successfully than they are by scientific men.”
“I feel that they could be under pure inspiration, and in nine cases out
of ten, the disharmonized mind be restored to harmony.”
“O, Dawn, let us work for this, and though we may never see it in our
life, we shall have the consolation and happiness of knowing that we had
a part in the beginning.”
“And the beginning is the noblest part, because the least appreciated.
The ball in motion will have many following it, but the starting must be
done by one or two.”
Their conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of a
visitor, who proved to be Miss Weston, whom Dawn was delighted to see.
“I had a singular feeling,” she said, to Dawn “as I came up the steps of
the portico, what do you suppose it was?”
“I am not clairvoyant to-day. Be kind enough to tell me.”
“I felt as though I was coming to a home, one which I should never wish
to leave.”
“And you need not, so long as you can be happy with me. I have long
needed some one like yourself to help me. Will you stay?”
“Dawn, may I?”
“Nothing would give me more happiness, because you have come in this
way; of your own spontaniety-simply gravitated to my life-and when the
exhaustion of our mental and vital forces demands our separation we will
part, and consider that as natural and agreeable to each as our present
coming together.”
“O, if these principles could be understood and lived out, how happy,
how natural we all should be; and happy because natural.”
“The world is slowly coming to an understanding of them, and you and I
may help its advance by living what we feel to be true lives.”
“Dawn, you are life and light to every one, I shall stay here the rest
of my life.”
With the clasp of true friendship about them, they lived and worked
together. Winter came, and they sat at evening by the fire-side and
talked of the past, and the golden future for mankind. The textures of
their lives were fast weaving into one web of interest. Dawn's excess of
spiritual life flowed into Edith's, who never forgot the hour upon the
seashore, and the awakening there of her spiritual trust.
Miss Weston proved to be one of those household angels who see things
to do, and seeing, perform. Silently she slipped into her sphere of
usefulness, and became Dawn's helper in the thousand ways which a woman
of tact and delicacy can ever be.
Silently the pines waved over the graves of Florence and her children.
The snow of many winters fell on their tasselled boughs, while her
husband learned through the beautiful philosophy, that our loved ones
find death no barrier to the affections. Gradually he learned the great
lesson of patience, which must be inwrought in every soul-that all
our experiences of life are necessary, and in divinest order; that
everything which happens is a part of the great whole, and that none of
the bitter could have been left out of his cup. The unrest, produced
by what he once considered his loss passed away, as the recognition of
life's perfect discipline flowed unto his vision.
The nearest person on earth, now, was his friend and sister Dawn, kin of
spirit, heart and mind. Regardless of people's speech, he went often to
her home, and received the sympathy he needed. To him, she was life
and inspiration. Why should he not seek where he could find? It was
her soul-life he needed, and long and earnestly they conversed of those
interior principles which so few perceive.
“I have learned by experience what true relationship may exist between
men and women,” said Dawn to Edith, one day when every moment had been
given to Herbert, “and how God intended us for each other?”
“And I see how your own life is increased by giving it to others, as you
are every day doing. If I had a husband, Dawn, I should enjoy him most
after he had been in your society. Uplifted and toned by the life of
another, he could be far more to me,--far dearer and vital. I wonder
women do not see this great truth.”
“They cannot on the merely human plane, which is ever selfish. Raise
them out of that, place them on the mount of vision, and they would
at once see it, and be glad to give their husbands the liberty of true
women's society, knowing that they were extending their own lives in so
doing. If men are unduly restrained, they take a lower form of freedom.”
“It is too true. I can now see that had I been allowed the earthly
alliance, I might have been selfish and contracted. I almost know I
should. O, Dawn, how much life is worth to us all; how much we have to
thank our heavenly father for,--most of all for the clouds with silver
linings.”
“I am glad that you see it thus, my friend, my sister. That is the
soul's only sure position. Life is a great and glorious gift. If all its
hours were mixed with pain, even to have lived is grand.” Then with
her eyes looking afar, as if discerning scenes invisible to others, she
repeated these beautiful lines:
“Two eyes hath every soul:
One into Time shall see;
The other bend its gaze
Into Eternity.
In all eternity
No tone can be so sweet
As where man's heart with God,
In unison doth beat.
What'er thou lovest, Man,
That too become thou must;
God-if thou lovest God;
Dust-if thou lovest dust.
Let but thy heart, O man!
Become a valley low,
And God will rain on it
Till it will overflow.”
Golden bars of light lay in the room. The sun was sinking peacefully to
rest, like a great soul who had been faithful to every duty, and rayed
out its life on the barren places of earth. In that calm evening, in the
greater calm of their lives they sat, gathering rest for the morrow, and
peace for their midnight dreams-dreams which brought to them the forms
of their loved ones who had gone but a little while before, and who
loved them still, rippling the silent stream with memory-waves, till
they broke on the shore and cooled their weary feet.