Harvey rose up early; as he walked to and fro in the white dawn, he found the answers to every question in his mind: they rose up with a sweet and joyful spontaneity. Life became filled with happiest meaning: a light from behind the veil fell upon the things he had before disliked, and in this new light, pain, sorrow, and the old moralities were invested with a significance undreamt of before. In admitting into his own mind Olive Rayne's ideas, he removed something of their austerity: what he himself rejected, seen in her, added another and peculiar interest to the saintly ideal of her which he had formed. She had once said, peace and rest were inconceivable while there existed strife and suffering in nature. Nowhere could there be found refuge; drawing near unto the divine, this pain only became wider, more intense, almost insufferable, feeling and assimilating the vastness of divine sorrow brooding over the unreclaimed deep. This pity, this consciousness of pain, not her own, filling her own, filling her life, marked her out from everyone he knew. She seemed to him as one consecrated. Then this lover in his mystic passion passed in the contemplation of his well-beloved from the earthly to the invisible soul. He saw behind and around her a form unseen by others; a form, spiritual, pathetic, of unimaginable beauty, on which the eternal powers kept watch, which they nourished with their own life, and on which they inflicted their own pain. This form was crowned, but with a keen- pointed radiance from which there fell a shadowy dropping. As he walked to and fro in the white dawn he made for her a song, and inscribed it. To One Consecrated Your paths were all unknown to us: We were so far away from you, We mixed in thought your spirit thus-- With whiteness, stars of gold, and dew. The mighty mother nourished you: Her breath blew from her mystic bowers: Their elfin glimmer floated through The pureness of your shadowy hours. The mighty mother made you wise; Gave love that clears the hidden ways: Her glooms were glory to your eyes; Her darkness but the Fount of Days. She made all gentleness in you, And beauty radiant as the morn's: She made our joy in yours, then threw Upon your head a crown of thorns. Your eyes are filled with tender light, For those whose eyes are dim with tears; They see your brow is crowned and bright, But not its ring of wounding spears.