We talked this matter over, looking at it in every way, until we satisfied ourselves that my conjectures must be true. The quiet manner in which they had intruded themselves, and taken possession of the house--unheralded as far as we knew--could not but present itself to our minds as a matter of special wonder. The more we conned it over the more we were puzzled. Before coming home I had called at an undertaker's, and notified him that his services were wanted at the Allen House. Early on the next day I took the liberty of calling there myself. I sent up my name, and awaited, with some interest, my reception. The visit might be regarded as an intrusion, and I was prepared to receive a message from the lady asking to be excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only a few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments on the stairs. My first glance at her face assured me that I was no unwelcome visitor. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, as she extended her hand, “for this early call. Our meeting last night for the first time can hardly be called a pleasant one--or the associations connected with it such as either of us might wish to recall.” “Our control over events is so slight,” I made answer as I resumed my seat, “that we should separate unpleasant feelings as far as possible from any memories connected with them.” A faint, sad smile just lightened up her placid face as she said, in reply to the remark. “Ah, Doctor, that may not be. Lives are too intimately blended here for any one to suffer or do wrong without leaving a burden of sadness on other memories.” “True; but the burden will be light or heavy according to our strength.” She looked at me without replying, for the remark was so palpable, that it seemed to involve nothing beyond a literal fact. “Or rather,” I said, “the burden will be heavy or light according to our state or quality.” There was a sign of awakening interest in her countenance as if my remark had touched some hidden spring of thought. “If we are right with ourselves,” I went on, “the disturbance produced by others' misconduct will not reach very far down. The pressure of sadness may lie upon us for a season; but cannot long remain; for the pure heart will lift itself into serene atmospheres.” “But, who is right with himself?” she said. “Whose heart is pure enough to dwell in these serene atmospheres? Not mine, alas!” I looked into the suddenly illuminated face as she put these questions, in surprise at the quick change which had passed over it. But the tone in which she uttered the closing sentence was touched with tender sadness. “Rather let me say,” I made answer, “_in the degree_ that we are right with ourselves. None attain unto perfection here.”