Some lives are steady, with a continuous flow of discipline; other's convulsive and terrible in their wild upheavings. Slowly we learn the goodness of God's mercy, which sends the storm that whitens our garments, making them pure as snow. When our song should be praise, we fly here and there bemoaning our fate, crossing and re-crossing the path which leads into life, instead of walking therein, and following it out to its glorious goal.

Slowly we learn to take each day, and fill it with our best endeavor, leaving to-morrow to God. Life's experiences should teach us to find where our work begins and where it ends; but in our learning, how we project ourselves, and exalt our own little knowledge.

Like children, we meddle with our father's tools, and so retard the blessing. When we learn to work with God, then will our lives be in divine order, and flow deep and peaceful to the end. Our impatient movements cut the threads in the heavenly warp, and the garment which was to enfold us is delayed in its making.

It has been said, "Man is his own worst enemy," and life's experience proves the truth of the assertion. But our final success is born of our present failures. It is in our efforts to ascend the stream, and thus rowing against the current, that we gain strength. Without resistance life would be a negation, and our running, sparkling river, become a stagnant pool.

Dawn brightened with the rising sun, or rather the cloud went by, leaving her in all her native brilliancy. Miss Weston spent her last day with her, and then went to her friends, with permission to write whenever she felt disposed, but with the caution not to say anything of her to Ralph or Marion.

"I think I must take one more look at the sea before winter closes in," said Dawn to her father, one pleasant day when the air was still and the foliage bright with autumn hues.

"You will be obliged to go alone, then, for I have too many duties, to accompany you," he said, and after a moment's pause, he asked, "Can you not wait a day or two?"

He read an answer in her pleading eyes, which said, "To-day, or not at all; I am in the mood, and must go now."

"Go, then," he said, "but do not allow the waves to steal you away."

It seemed to him that she was slipping from his life; and indeed she was receding, but only to flow again more freely and strongly to him. As the tide which sweeps out and comes back, each time making a farther inroad upon the shore, so she was outflowing and inflowing, each tidal return beating deeper into his soul. We must flow out to the ocean, to the depth of living waters, if we would win a firmer abiding in the hearts of those we love.

Dawn walked upon the beach, the very spot where in childhood her ardent spirit first looked upon the sea. Idly, some might think, she wore the hours away, gathering white pebbles, and throwing them into the waters.

How long she continued thus, thinking of the past and musing of the future, she knew not. With her, one thought was uppermost, and that was of Ralph, whose letters to her had of late been warm with that spirit which sooner or later glows in every heart. She felt that to him she had a duty to perform which at the farthest could not long be deferred, and she knew that to meet it, required a strength and a singleness of purpose which would call into service all the philosophy she could command.

The deep silence that surrounded her was at length broken by the sound of a footstep; then a voice was heard, that seemed to her, in her half-entranced state, to come from the world of spirits. She started, as the voice sounded nearer. She knew whose voice it was, yet she only whispered to herself, "How strange," and still gazed upon the sea, while a feeling pervaded her whole soul, akin to joy supernal.

"Dawn, Dawn; I have found you at last, and by the sea!"

Still she looked on the restless waters. There are moments in every life when speech fails, when words are powerless, when the soul can only express itself by silence. Such a moment came to Dawn.

Ralph took her hand in his own. She turned on him a gaze which seemed to bring her soul nearer to his own than ever before, and they walked slowly side by side. Then he told her that his sister and a friend were on the beach, a mile below; that they had all three come to take one more look at the sea, and to gather mosses.

"I knew not why I had such a strong desire to come here," he said "but now see clearly what drew me in this direction. The feeling to come was overpowering, and I could not resist it."

They walked, and conversed of all the past, until finally, the question of so momentous interest to both was approached, and Ralph pleaded as none but a lover can.

A long silence ensued. Hope and fear, doubt and uncertainty, came and went, and every moment seemed to him an age.

Dawn at length turned her face slowly towards him, and then raised her eyes to heaven, as if imploring its aid. The deep working of her spirit was plainly depicted upon her features; first the conflict, then the triumph.

"I must walk alone. I love you, Ralph, as I have never loved before; but I have a mission on earth; one which I cannot share with another. To its service I dedicate my life."

She sprang towards him, threw her arms for an instant around his neck; then, tearing herself away, was gone before he could fully realize what had happened.

Slowly the reality of what had occurred came upon him, like a storm more terrible for its slow approach.

"O, that I had not seen her to-day," he said, "for then hope would have been left me. Now, all is over. With me life must be gone through with mechanically, not lived earnestly; happiness must be relinquished, peace and rest prayed for."

When Marion and Edith came in search of him, the crisis of his great grief was past, but the white face showed it was not the Ralph who left them.

"Why, you are ill; what has happened?" was his sisters' ejaculation.

"I came near sinking."

"Were you bathing?" they both asked, together.

"In sorrow's sea," he was about to say, but kept the words back, and appeared cheerful for their sakes.

"Then a wave did really come over you, Ralph?" said his sister, looking anxiously into his face.

"Yes, a strong one. I came near going under."

They did not know that he spoke in correspondences, and accepted the literal explanation, which was true in the abstract.

"You look as though you had concentrated a dozen years into one day," said Mr. Wyman, as he met Dawn at the door.

"I have had a very intense day."

"You should have taken more time, child."

This was her first unshared sorrow, and she longed to be away, alone. It seemed as though an ocean rolled, for the time, between herself and her father, and she hastily left him and sought her room. That night none but angels witnessed her struggles, and the peace which afterwards flowed into her troubled heart.

When morning came, with light and love in her face, she went below, and those who met her knew not the conflict of the night,--the great darkness,--so brilliant was her morning.

"I am going to the city, to-day, to make some purchases: my wardrobe needs replenishing."

"Which announcement, I suppose, is an appeal to my purse," remarked Mr. Wyman.

"I should put her on a shorter allowance, if I were you," said his wife, "if she does not give us more of her company."

"Are you aware that you have been roaming most of the time, Dawn, since the change in our home?" said her father, as he presented her the means for her purchases.

"Of course, having some one to take my place as housekeeper, I wish to enjoy my freedom a little."

Mrs. Wyman looked troubled. Had she separated them? Was Dawn absenting herself on her account? A look of pain passed over her face, which she little knew the subject of her thoughts caught and interpreted.

"I am not going because you are here," said Dawn at parting; "I am going because I feel impelled to. I am truly grateful to you, that your love came to bless my father's life. Do you believe me?"

"I do; and thank you from my heart for your words." This was said with a depth of feeling that is always accompanied by the holy baptism of tears, and this was no exceptional occasion.

The first thought that came to Dawn, on her arrival in the city, was the dream of her childhood,--the pure white robe, and the damp, dark lanes.

"Perhaps my mission is close at hand," she said, stepping aside to let an old man pass. She glanced at his sad, wrinkled face. It seemed as though other eyes were looking through her own into it. She took some money from her purse, and thrust it into his hand.

He closed his fingers me............