“You must go back with me to our fatherland. I am nearly through my journeying, for it seems idle work for me now. Besides, I have had premonitions that I should make ready for another journey. You seem startled. Ten years have worn upon me, for they have been years of constant and hard labor. I could not forget, and would not; but hope will fade into fruition by and by.” “Cone, you ought to tell me of your life. Much as you respected my wife, you never raised the curtain from the scenes which transpired before we met you. Why have you lived to your age, and taken no heart into your own to bless and hold? Your principles are like adamant, and would keep you anywhere, but every man and woman needs to have his or her heart uncloistered, that others may grow strong and unselfish with him. This working out life’s plan alone, with no giving or receiving of loves, seems a mistake to me. Has your heart anything hidden away in it, or are you proof to what you may think the weaker acts of life?” Cone’s face seemed a little troubled. Not one man or woman out of ten thousand reaches the age of forty without having loved or been loved, and felt blessed joy or bitter pain in one or the other. Was he indeed different from the rest of mankind? He manifested no partiality for women, except a deference that everybody pays to what it supposes exalted and ennobling. He had received numerous proofs of their esteem for him, and indications that they would not repel his attentions. He was often the subject of remark, from his striking face and manner, but when all the queries had been asked and unanswered they said, “There must be a reason for all this, and time will tell it.” He had been touched in heart by Marsh’s utter helplessness. He knew better than anybody else what a centre she had been to his thought and his affections. He sympathized with him. Perhaps the doors of his own inner sanctuary, locked for a half-score years, might swing back just once, and let a weary friend come in and find consolation. “Come to-night, Marsh, and I will talk with you. Good-by till then.” Alone and unperceived he stole out to sit under the majestic shadows of Mont Blanc, and worship. Nobody with a God in his heart ever stands there without holding communion with Him. No wonder that the lofty peaks, echoing cañons, and wondrous waterfalls of our own country have written the names of more than one poet on the pages of American literature! Such scenes are the nurseries in which great minds develop. Such grand handiwork of the Builder draws every man very near to Him. Burton Cone had never forgotten the scenes through which he had passed. Though some things had been laid away and sealed with the seal of silence for over a dozen years, they were fresh to him as though they had taken place that very morning. Perhaps he did not need sympathy as some need it; perhaps he did not wish to burden others with his feelings.