“’The day is done, and the darkness
     Falls from the wings of night,
    As a feather is wafted downward
     From an eagle in his flight.’”

Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem which seemed so singularly suited to Clara’s wishes, the latter said earnestly: 

“Yes, yes, Beulah,”

  “’Such songs have power to quiet
     The restless pulse of care,
    And come like the benediction
     That follows after prayer.’”

“Let us obey the poet’s injunction, and realize the closing lines:” 

  “’And the night shall be filled with music,
      And the cares that infest the day
    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
      And as silently steal away.’”

Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of impatience in her tone: 

“Why try to escape it all, Clara?  If those ‘grand old masters,’ those ‘bards sublime,’ who tell us in trumpet-tones of ’life’s endless toil and endeavor,’ speak to you through my loved books, why should you ’long for rest’?”

“An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the eagle,” answered Clara meekly.

“One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties.  Strong swimmers are such from fierce buffetings with hungry waves.  Come out of your warm nest of inertia!  Strengthen your wings by battling with storm and wind!” Her brow bent as she spoke.

“Beulah, what sustains you would starve me.”

“Something has come over you, Clara.”

“Yes; a great trust in God’s wisdom and mercy has stolen into my heart.  I no longer look despondingly into my future.”

“Why?  Because you fancy that future will be very short and painless?  Ah, Clara, is this trust, when the end comes and there is no more work to do?”

“You are mistaken; I do not see Death beckoning me home.  Oh, I have not earned a home yet!  I look forward to years of labor, profit, and peace.  To-day I found some lines in the morning paper.  Nay, don’t curl your lips with a sneer at what you call ‘newspaper poetry.’  Listen to the words that came like a message from the spirit-land to my murmuring heart.”  Her voice was low and unsteady, as she read: 

  “’Two hands upon the breast, and labor’s done;
    Two pale feet crossed in rest, the race is won. 
    Two eyes with coin-weights shut, all tears cease;
    Two lips where grief is mute, and wrath at peace. 
    So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
    God, in his kindness, answereth not!’”

“Such, Beulah, I felt had been my unvoiced prayer; but now!”

  “’Two hands to work addressed; aye, for his praise,
    Two feet that never rest; walking his ways;
    Two eyes that look above, still through all tears;
    Two lips that breathe but love; never more fears. 
    So we cry afterward, low at our knees. 
    Pardon those erring cries!  Father, hear these!”