“You?” Edith cried, “and whence?” “From whence?” I said. “Each slightest spark of good Flies upward, and the heaven returns it where It fires the most?—and where were tinder found Like my heart?” “Why is this?” I heard; “My note— Did it miscarry?—Would you thwart me now— Or, though my gifts could aid them, do they wish No help from me?—My heart was fix’d on it.” “On my cause,” breathed I. “Did you never think That work with them would make you work with me?” “Why think of that?” she ask’d.—“Enough to know I sought my own work here.” “Why, Edith, friend,” I answer’d—“Why could not your work be mine? What parts us now? What though, like mine, your soul Had come to look down life’s long dreary vista, And watch yourself alone. Why bide alone? I, I, at least, through all these years have seen— Not you yourself, for that too dear had been!— But I have seen a vision, seeming you Within the far horizon of my hopes, The sweet mirage before me. Now, at last, I know those misty outlines veil’d the truth; It must have meant that you would yet be found— That we should meet. Heaven surely meant it so.” LXXI. Her mien had chang’d; and yet she ask’d again, “But how with Grace? I thought”— “Alas,” I said, “With your dear spirit thron’d above my love, What were I but a traitor, wedding Grace? This heart was yours, your dwelling-place alone. Nay, now I do not come to give it you: It only opens to an owner old. How sacredly I guarded it for you!— A holy place, though there, above the shrine, The niche was empty. Ah, has earth seem’d rude? Some reason was there; surely some there was. We war with Providence, who war with life. We seek to mould our own existence out; But life, best made, is mainly for us made. Each passing circumstance, a tool of heaven, Grates by to smooth some edge of character, And model manhood into better shape. Has nought been wrought with you? Ah, idol mine, You living image of all hope, would God, Love’s niche were fill’d, love’s altar stood complete!” LXXII. Then Edith lean’d her face against her hand, And slowly came the words that seem’d so dear: “It may be, Norman, may—I know—I feel— It must be earth, so roughly handling one, Should round experience for some wise design. Yet this—it cannot be—how can it?—nay— For me you come—and you? your voice I hear? No echo void, oft, oft so sweet in dreams?— Nor now to wake me?—Nay I trust. You may— ’Twill stray no more—take back your wanderer.”