“Mademoiselle, I feel such extraordinary agitation when I see her, and such deep sadness when I see her no more, that in any other man what I feel would be called love. But that sentiment draws those who feel it ardently together, whereas between her and me a great gulf lies, whose icy coldness penetrates my very being in her presence; though the feeling dies away when I see her no longer. I leave her in despair; I return to her with ardor,--like men of science who seek a secret from Nature only to be baffled, or like the painter who would fain put life upon his canvas and strives with all the resources of his art in the vain attempt.” “Monsieur, all that you say is true,” replied the young girl, artlessly. “How can you know, Minna?” asked the old pastor. “Ah! my father, had you been with us this morning on the summit of the Falberg, had you seen him praying, you would not ask me that question. You would say, like Monsieur Wilfrid, that he saw his Seraphita for the first time in our temple, ‘It is the Spirit of Prayer.’” These words were followed by a moment’s silence. “Ah, truly!” said Wilfrid, “she has nothing in common with the creatures who grovel upon this earth.” “On the Falberg!” said the old pastor, “how could you get there?” “I do not know,” replied Minna; “the way is like a dream to me, of which no more than a memory remains. Perhaps I should hardly believe that I had been there were it not for this tangible proof.” She drew the flower from her bosom and showed it to them. All three gazed at the pretty saxifrage, which was still fresh, and now shone in the light of the two lamps like a third luminary. “This is indeed supernatural,” said the old man, astounded at the sight of a flower blooming in winter. “A mystery!” cried Wilfrid, intoxicated with its perfume. “The flower makes me giddy,” said Minna; “I fancy I still hear that voice,--the music of thought; that I still see the light of that look, which is Love.” “I implore you, my dear Monsieur Becker, tell me the history of Seraphita,--enigmatical human flower,--whose image is before us in this mysterious bloom.” “My dear friend,” said the old man, emitting a puff of smoke, “to explain the birth of that being it is absolutely necessary that I disperse the clouds which envelop the most obscure of Christian doctrines. It is not easy to make myself clear when speaking of that incomprehensible revelation,--the last effulgence of faith that has shone upon our lump of mud. Do you know Swedenborg?” “By name only,--of him, of his books, and his religion I know nothing.” “Then I must relate to you the whole chronicle of Swedenborg.” CHAPTER III. SERAPHITA-SERAPHITUS After a pause, during which the pastor seemed to be gathering his recollections, he continued in the following words:--