“Oh, do not speak of it!  How can you?  It would kill his mother,” cried Regina, passionately, clasping her hands across her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision.

“Let us pray God to mercifully avert such a heavy blow.  But, my dear, keep this in mind:  with terrible bereavement comes the strength to bear it.  The strength of endurance,—­a strength born only in the darkest hours of a soul’s anguish; and at last when affliction has done its worst, and all earthly hope is dead, patience with tender grace and gentle healing mutely sits down in hope’s vacant place.  To-day I found a passage in a new book that impressed me as beautiful, strong, and true.  Would you like to hear it?”

“If it will teach me patience, please let me hear it.”

“Give me the book lying on the lounge.”

She opened it, put on her spectacles, and read: 

“There is the peace of surrendered, as well as of fulfilled, hopes,—­the peace, not of satisfied, but of extinguished longings,—­the peace, not of the happy love and the secure fireside, but of unmurmuring and accepted loneliness,—­the peace, not of the heart which lives in joyful serenity afar from trouble and from strife, but of the heart whose conflicts are over, and whose hopes are buried,—­the peace of the passionless as well as the peace of the happy;—­not the peace which brooded over Eden, but that which crowned Gethsemane.’”

“My dear Regina, only religion brings this blessed calm; this is indeed that promised ‘Peace that passeth all understanding,’ and therefore we would all do well to heed the words of Isaiah:  ’Their strength is to sit still.’”

Looking reverently up at her pale, worn placid face, the girl thought it might have been considered a psalm of renunciation.  Almost sorrowfully she answered: 

“I begin to see that there is far more shadow than sunshine in this world; the night is longer than the day.”

“You are too young to realize such solemn things, and should endeavour to catch all the dew of life that glistens within your reach; for the withering heat of the noon will come soon enough to even the most favoured.  An erroneous impression has too long prevailed, that religious fervour, and a cheerful, hopeful, happy spirit are incompatible; that devoutness manifests itself in a lugubrious or at least solemn visage, and that a joyous mirthful temperament is closely allied to ’the world, the flesh, and the devil.’  A more mischievous fallacy never found favour.  Innocent happiness in our hearts is acceptable worship to our God, who has given us the language of joy, as He gave to birds the power of song.  In the universal canticle which nature sends up to its Creator, shall humanity, the noblest of the marvellous mechanism, alone be silent?  The innocent joyousness of a pure heart is better than incense swung in the temples of the Lord.”

“Mrs. Mason, I wish to consult you on a subject that has given me some anxiety.  Would you approve of my attending the theatre and opera?  I have never yet gone, because I think neither Mr. Hargrove nor Mr. Lindsay would have advised me to do so; and I am perplexed about the matter, for Mr. Palma says that next winter he shall insist on my seeing the best plays and operas.  What ought I to do?”