She laid still and pale upon the bed, while Dawn moved, or rather floated, about the room. The tide of life was fast ebbing; the last grief had sundered the long tension, and soon her freed spirit would be winging its way heavenward.

"Shall I sit by you and read?" asked Dawn, as the hand on the clock pointed to the hour of midnight. No sleep had come to the weary eyes, which now turned so thankfully and trustingly to the benefactor of the outcast.

In tones sweetly modulated to the time and state, she commenced reading that comforting psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd."

At its close, Margaret was asleep, and Dawn laid back in her chair, rested, and watched till morning.

"Where am I? What has happened?" were the questions expressed on the features of the poor girl, when she awoke, and her spirit wandered back from dreamland.

It was some time before she could take up the thread of joy which was now woven into her last earthly days, and forget the dark, sorrowful past. The old years seemed to her then like musty volumes, bound by a golden chord. The present peace compensated her for the long season of unrest, and in its atmosphere her soul gathered its worn, scattered forces, and prepared itself to leave the old and to take on the new form.

How few homes are such gates to heaven. And yet they who expect angels to abide with them, must not forget to entertain the lowly and the erring. Many have houses decked and garnished, but how rarely do we find on life's journey, these wayside inns for the weary pilgrims who have wandered away into forbidden paths.

Not alone did Dawn administer to her; her father and mother soothed the dying girl's pillow, and infused into the otherwise dark and troubled soul, rays of eternal light.

Ye who would have beautiful garlands beyond, must care for the neglected blossoms here, and wash the dust of life's great highway from their drooping petals. Ye who would seek life, must lose it; the flowing stream alone is pure and vital. Lives are selfish that are stagnant, and generate disease and death.

How poor, because destitute of enduring wealth, are those who, rich in worldly goods, neglect their opportunities, and hence know not the blessedness of doing good. There is no provision in all God's universe for such pauperism. Slowly must they, who by their own acts, become its subjects, work themselves from it into the sphere of true life. Another world will more plainly reveal this, and it will be found that they who value not such opportunities here, will beg for them there. In that existence will be many, who, forgetful or neglectful of their duty while on earth, must remain in spirit about this world, and through other organisms than their own, do that which they should have done, and could have accomplished far easier, when occupants of their earthly temples. There is no escape from the law of life, for God is that law, and that law is God. Happy they who become willing instruments in his hand.

In selfhood, nothing can be done, for life is always in conjunction. All potent forces are combinations, and egotism ever limits that power which is daily and hourly seeking lodgment in the midst of mankind. He who trusts only to himself, destroys his own usefulness, and blindly turns away from every source of highest enjoyment.

The sun passed slowly over the western hills, tinging with a beautiful mellowness the clouds along the horizon. It was a pleasant hour to die, when the earth was still, and weary feet were turning from labor to rest.

"Shall we know each other there?" asked the dying girl of Dawn.

"It is there as here. We are ever known and loved, for God's provision for his children extends beyond the vale."

"And are the sinful, the erring, received into peace and rest?"

"None are without sin; none spotless; peace and rest are for the weary."

"O, comforting words. They must be from God," softly whispered Margaret; she closed her pale blue eyes as though she would shut out everything but that one consoling thought.

When she opened them, they shone with a heavenly radiance, and she reached forth her thin, white hand towards Dawn, who clasped it in her own. A few short breaths, a single pressure,--it was Margaret's last token as she went over the river to find that life and rest which on earth had been denied to her.

Dawn laid the cold, white hands on the breast of the sleeper, and went out of the chamber where a soul had had its new birth, with deepened emotions of life, and its claims upon humanity.

The next instant she was clasped to the warm heart of her father, and nestled closely there until the weary lids closed, and sleep descended upon her.

He held her through her slumber, and prayed for strength to bear the separations which must come between himself and child; for most clearly did he perceive that God had mapped out for her a labor that would call her from his side.

"May I never shadow the rays of the Infinite," he said, just as she awoke.

"How clear it is; some cloud seems to have been removed from me," spoke Dawn, looking up into his eyes, not perfectly comprehending all. "I may work in my own way, now you have some one to love beside me; may I not?"

"Not for worlds, my child, would I hinder you in your mission of usefulness, and if in the past, I have been selfish, I am not now. Go and come at your pleasure; bring whom you will to your home, and my blessings shall rest on them and you."

Dawn had no words with which to express her gratitude. The tears, that in spite of her efforts to keep them back, would glisten in her eyes, indicated the depth of her feelings, and the love she cherished for her father. From that moment their lives flowed like a river, in a deeper and broader channel, and many bright flowers blossomed on its margin giving hope to the despairing, rest and strength to the weary and fainting pilgrims of time.

They made a grave under a willow, and engraved on a plain, white stone, the simple word: MARGARET.

Parents and child had met in the world beyond, to grow into daily recognition of, and unfold in a more genial clime, their individual lives.

Mrs. Thorne (Margaret's step-mother) had died a year previous to the time when Dawn found the old man in the city, looking for his daughter.

After Margaret's departure from home, he became dull and listless, and finally deranged. What subtle attraction led him to the city where Margaret was stopping, few can comprehend; but to those who fully realize that guardian angels watch over and guide us, the mystery is solved, and it, like many other seemingly strange things of life, made clear in the light of that faith.

It was for woman that Dawn labored, for through her elevation she saw that the whole race must ascend. All should know that men will be great if women are; and it is a truth that is daily becoming more evident, that he must be reached through her. In a Hindoo fable, Vishna is represented as following Maga through a series of transformations. When she is an insect, he becomes an insect; she changes to an elephant, and he becomes one of the same species; till at last she becomes a woman, and he a man; she a goddess, and he a god. So, outside the regions of fable, if woman is ignorant and frivolous, man will be ignorant and frivolous; if woman rises she will take man up with her.

Two years passed away, and the current of life grew stronger, as each wave inflowed to the shore where Dawn sat, waiting for shattered barks. This was her life-mission, and well she knew, to help the lowly and down-trodden in every station of life, was but fulfilling the divine command.

They were not all outcasts who laid claim to her love and sympathy; for, sanctioned by the marriage law, the soul's chastity was daily being sacrificed to lust, shame, and dishonor. She saw many living together in wedlock, under the most debasing influences, void of every grace and feeling which makes life holy and refined; bringing into the world children, gross, dull, and inharmonious, like themselves.

The question will force itself upon every thoughtful mind, Why is all this?

Even to destroy life, heinous as that sin is, cannot be deemed more sinful than to bring it into being, under such circumstances, to suffer.

But we are passing through the refining process. Much will be questioned, much remain unanswered. Let us look well to ourselves, and learn that there are many ways in which we may err, before we condemn others.

The light of to-day is insufficient for to-morrow; let us, therefore, be not too assertive, and bold, but follow quietly the indications of life, not closing down our opinion upon any of its agitations. To-day is ours, no more; sufficient unto the day is the evil. We burden ourselves each hour with too many questions which retard our progress.

A wise man takes no more weight than his horses can draw. Our journey would be swifter, if we started with less each morning. We can not hasten God's purposes. Growth is slow; feverish action is disease. The throbbing pulse is beating away our vital forces, not adding to life, and yet how many do we behold, who, working in this unhealthy manner, look on those more calm and collected, as lacking force.

The cataract expends itself in spray and foam; the deep river, more slow, bears its tribute of wealth to the ocean.

Let us work calmly, and not mistake mists for mountains. Depth is height.

Enthusiasm is the sun which warms, not burns, our lives. It is a richness, a fullness of being, not a wild, spasmodic action.

With Dawn's efforts came increased light, until it seemed to her, that all the motives of human souls were laid open before her vision. This power of perception made her life compact, sharp, and real; and there were moments when she longed for a veil to be let down between her and the persons with whom she came in contact.

She walked among the crowd, but did not mingle with it. She soared above, and they who could not comprehend her, called her strange and odd. Such chasms must ever exist, where one sees the heart's interior, and knows that its true beatings are muffled and suppressed. With such clear vision, the mind at times almost loses its mental poise, its equilibrium, and forgets the glorious hopes and promises which are recorded in the book of life, as compensatory for all its conflicts here.

After many months of a life of intensity, it was with a sense of relief that Dawn, upon opening a letter from Miss Weston, received information of her intention of making her a short visit. This would so change the tenor of her life, that she was overjoyed at the thought of the happiness in store for her. But when, at the close of a bright summer day, she met her friend at the door, and recognized the life of Ralph so closely blended with her spirit, she involuntarily shrank from her approach, and almost regretted that she had come. She, however, quickly rallied all her forces, fearful lest the shadow might be mistaken for that of uncordiality, and drawing her tenderly to her side, imprinted her warmest kisses upon her lips.

Tears sprang to Edith's eyes, and coursed down her cheeks; tears which Dawn could not comprehend, for her vision, both mental and spiritual, was clouded, her thoughts wandered, and her words seemed vague and indirect.

Seated in the library after tea, she asked her friend to sing for her.

Miss Weston readily complied, and sang with beautiful pathos and feeling, Schubert's Wanderer.

"Why that song?" said Dawn, as Edith rose from the instrument.

"I seemed to sing it for you, for I, surely, am no wanderer now."

The color rose to Dawn's face, as she said quickly, "I hope not. Then you, at last, have found rest?"

"Perfect peace and rest. I think I never found my home before; for I am so happy with Ralph and Marion."

Was Dawn jealous? What did that blushing face mean, followed by a whiteness rivalling that of the snow? Was it caused by fear, or hope?

Miss Weston seemed not to notice her agitation, but continued praising Ralph and his sister, till her listener proposed a walk in the garden before retiring.

They strolled among the flowers and shrubbery, and then sat upon the same seat which her father and mother had so often occupied.

Her tears could flow now and not be seen, so she repressed them no longer, but allowed them to fall freely over her blanched cheek.

"Dawn," said Edith, suddenly, "I have a fairy tale which I wish to read to you to-night, before we go to our slumbers."

Dawn, glad of any diversion, gladly assented, and they went into her room, where they sat together, while Edith read the following tale:--

"In the days of chivalry, when life to the wealthy was a series of exciting enjoyments, and to the poor a hopeless slavery, a Fairy and a beautiful child lived in an old castle together. The owner of this large and neglected building had been absent on the crusade ever since the time which gave him a daughter and deprived him of a wife; but many an aged pilgrim brought occasional tidings of the glory he was winning in the distant land. At last it was said he was wending his way homeward, and bringing with him a young orphan companion, who had risen, by dint of his own brave deeds alone, from the rank of a simple knight to be the chosen leader of thousands. The child had grown to girlhood now, and very bright upon her sleep were the dreams of this youthful hero, who was to love her and be the all of her solitary life. I said she dwelt with the Fairy; true, but of her presence she had never dreamed. Always invisible, the being had yet never left her. She whispered prayer in her ear, as she knelt morning and evening in the dim little oratory; she brought calm and happy feelings to her breast, which the commonest things awoke to joy and life; she led her to seek and feel for the needy, the sick, and the suffering; she nurtured in her the holiest faith in God, and trust in man; yet the maiden thought she breathed all this from the summer evenings, the flowers, the swift labor of her light fingers, and the thousand things which cherished the happiness growing up within her heart.

"It was night, and Ada slept; the moon's rays, gilding each turret and tower, crept in at the narrow portal which gave light to the chamber, and lingered on the sunny hair and rounded limbs of the sleeping girl.

"The Fairy sat by her side, weeping for the first time.

"'Alas!' said she, 'the stranger is coming; thou wilt love him, my child; and they say that earthly love is misery. Among us, we know no unrest from it; we love, indeed, each other and all things lovely, but ages pass on, and love changes us not. Yet they say it fevers the blood of mortals, pales the cheek, makes the heart beat, and the voice falter, when it comes; yet it is eternal, mighty, and entrancing. Alas! I cannot understand it! Ada, I must leave thee to other guidance than my own. I love thee more than self, still I can be no longer thy guide.'

"The Fairy started, for she felt, though she heard not, that other spirits had suddenly become present. She raised her eyes, and three forms, more radiant than any fairy can be, were gazing on her in silent sadness.

"'O, spirits,' cried the weeper, faintly, 'who can ye be?'

"'The shades of love,' replied voices so etherially fine that a spirit's ear could hardly discern the words.

"'The shades," repeated the Fairy in surprise; 'I thought love was one.'

"'I am Love,' said the three together; 'intrust the untainted heart of your beloved one to me.'

"'O, pure beings,' cried the Fairy, bending reverently before them, 'will ye indeed guide Ada to happiness, yet ask my permission? Tell me, though not human, to choose which a human heart would prefer.'

"'My name is Mind,' replied the first. 'When I dwell on earth, I bind together two etherial essences; I unite the most spiritual part of each; I assimilate thought; I cause the communion of ideas. No love can be eternal without me, and with me associate the loftiest enjoyments. Words cannot tell the rapture of love between mind and mind. Dreams cannot picture the glory of that union. Very rarely do I dwell unstained and alone in a human breast, but when I do, that being becomes lost in the entireness of its bliss. Fairy, the lover of Ada is a hero; wilt thou accept me to reign in her heart?'

"The Fairy paused, and then spoke sadly,--

"'Alas, bright being, Ada is a girl of passionate and earnest feeling. Thou couldst not be happiness to her. Thou mightest, indeed, abstract her intellect in time from all things but itself; but the heart within her must first wither or die, and the death of a young heart is a terrible thing. Pardon me, but Ada cannot be thine.'

"'They call me Virtue,' said the second spirit; 'when I fill a heart, that heart can live alone. It wakes to life on seeing my shadow in the object it first loves; that object never realizes the form of which it bears the semblance, and then turns to me, the ideal, for its sole happiness. I am associated with every thing pure and holy and true. Where human spirits have drawn nighest to the Eternal, I have been there to hallow them; where the weak have suffered long without complaint, where the dying have to the last, last breath held one name dearer than all; where innocence hath stayed guilt, and darkest injuries been forgiven, there ever am I. Fairy, shall I dwell with Ada?'

"Still sadder were the accents of the guardian Fairy:

"'And is this human love?' said she. 'This would be no happiness to my child, who is a mortal and a woman, and who will yearn for a closer and a dearer thing than the love of goodness alone; erring creatures cannot love perfection as their daily food. Beautiful spirit, thou art fitted for heaven, not earth, for an angel, but not for Ada.'

"Then spoke the third:

"'My name is Beauty,' said she. 'Men unite me to imagination and worship me. Many have degraded me to the meanest things I own, because my very essence is passion; but they who know my true nature, unite me with everything divine and lovely in the world. If I fill Ada's heart when she loves, the very face of all things will change to her. The flowing of a brook will be music, the singing of the summer birds ecstacy; the early morning, the dewy evening, will fill her with strange tenderness, for a light will be on all things-the light of her love; and she will learn what it is to stay her very heart's beatings to catch the lightest step of the adored; to feel the hot blood rushing to her brow, when only he looks on her, the hand tremble, and the whole frame thrill with exquisite rapture, and meet with delicious tremor, the first look of love from a man. The raptures of my first bliss were worth ages of misery; and, pressed to the bosom of the beloved, a human spirit feels it is indeed blessed. Youth is mine, eternal youth and pleasure. Fairy, Ada must be mine.'

"'Thou seemest,' said the Fairy, musingly, 'to be the most suited for mortals. In thy words and emblems I see nothing but sensuality of the least material order. And to all there seemeth, too, to be a time when one clasp of the hand that is loved is more than the comprehension of the g............