turned to it as a confidant, not because of its beauty or power, but because it seemed to tell her a story which she longed to understand.  “I think I do understand it,” she said to herself as she looked out.  “If he could only hear it as I do,” and of course “he” was Mr. Hazard; “how he would feel it!” She felt tears roll down her face as she listened to the voice of the waters and knew that they were telling her a different secret from any that Hazard could ever hear.  “He will think it is the church talking!” Sad as she was, she smiled as she thought that it was Sunday morning, and a ludicrous contrast flashed on her mind between the decorations of St. John’s, with its parterre of nineteenth century bonnets, and the huge church which was thundering its gospel under her eyes.

To have Niagara for a rival is no joke.  Hazard spoke with no such authority; and Esther’s next idea was one of wonder how, after listening here, any preacher could have the confidence to preach again.  “What do they know about it?” she asked herself.  “Which of them can tell a story like this, or a millionth part of it?” To dilute it in words and translate bits of it for school-girls, or to patronize it by defense or praise, was somewhat as though Esther herself should paint a row of her saints on the cliff under Table Rock.  Even to fret about her own love affairs in such company was an impertinence.  When eternity, infinity and omnipotence seem to be laughing and dancing in one’s face, it is well to treat such visitors civilly, for they come rarely in such a humor.

So much did these thoughts interest and amuse her that she took infinite pains with her toilet in order to honor her colossal host whose own toilet was sparkling with all the jewels of nature, like an Indian prince whose robes are crusted with diamonds and pearls.  When she came down to the breakfast-room, Strong, who was alone there, looked up with a start.

“Why, Esther!” he broke out, “take care, or one of these days you will be handsome!”

Catherine too was pretty as a fawn, and was so honestly pleased to meet Wharton again that he expanded into geniality.  As for broken hearts, no self-respecting young woman shows such an ornament at any well regulated breakfast-table; they are kept in dark drawers and closets like other broken furniture.  Esther had made the deadliest resolution to let no trace of her unhappiness appear before her uncle, and Mr. Murray, who saw no deeper than other men into the heart-problem, was delighted with the gayety of the table, and proud of his own success as a physician for heart complaints.  Mrs. Murray, who knew more about her own sex, kept her eye on the two girls with more anxiety than she cared to confess.  If any new disaster should happen, the prospect would be desperate, and it was useless to deny that she had taken risks heavy enough to stagger a professional gambler.  The breakfast table looked gay and happy enough, and so did the rapids which sparkled and laughed in the distance.