“And who shall remain in that ’illimitable dungeon of pure, pure darkness, which imprisons creation?  That dead sea of nothing, in whose unfathomable zone of blackness the jewel of the glittering universe is set and buried forever?’ Child, is not that, too a dwelling-place?” He passed his fingers through his hair, sweeping it all back from his ample forehead.  Beulah opened the book, and read aloud: 

“Immediately my eyes were opened, and I saw, as it were, an interminable sea of light; all spaces between all heavens were filled with happiest light, for the deserts and wastes of the creation were now filled with the sea of light, and in this sea the suns floated like ash-gray blossoms, and the planets like black grains of seed.  Then my heart comprehended that immortality dwelled in the spaces between the worlds, and Death only among the worlds; and the murky planets I perceived were but cradles for the infant spirits of the universe of light!  In the Zaarahs of the creation I saw, I heard, I felt—­the glittering, the echoing, the breathing of life and creative power!”

She closed the volume, and, while her lips trembled with deep feeling, added earnestly: 

“Oh, sir, it makes me long, like Jean Paul, ’for some narrow cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the universe.’  It is an infinite conception and painting of infinity, which my soul endeavors to grasp, but wearies in thinking of!”

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, pointing to a row of books, said with some eagerness: 

“I will test your love of Jean Paul.  Give me that large volume in crimson binding on the second shelf.  No—­further on; that is it.”

He turned over the leaves for a few minutes, and, with a finger still on the page, put it into her hand, saying: 

“Begin here at ‘I went through the worlds,’ and read down to ’when I awoke.’”

She sat down and read.  He put his hand carelessly over his eyes, and watched her curiously through his fingers.  It was evident that she soon became intensely interested.  He could see the fierce throbbing of a vein in her throat and the tight clutching of her fingers.  Her eyebrows met in the wrinkling forehead, and the lips were compressed severely.  Gradually the flush faded from her cheek, an expression of pain and horror swept over her stormy face, and, rising hastily, she exclaimed: 

“False! false!  ‘That everlasting storm which no one guides’ tells me in thunder tones that there is a home of rest in the presence of the infinite Father!  Oh, chance does not roam, like a destroying angel, through that ‘snow-powder of stars!’ The love of our God is over all his works as a mantle!  Though you should ’take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,’ lo! he is there!  The sorrowing children of the universe are not orphans!  Neither did Richter believe it; well might he declare that with this sketch he would ‘terrify himself’