“And this other?” “_And this other_—oh! stop, mother; put a long pause between _that_ and—‘this other,’ and sink your voice low, like you were whispering in a church—this other dawns on my soul like a soft, rosy morn, faintly, gently, sweetly, and bright and brightening! Hagar broke the silence of my heart as with a laugh, a shout, a whoop, a halloa! ‘This other’ _steals_ upon the ear like a soft note of music, rising and swelling into harmony and volume!” “My poet!” “No, mother, not your _poet_; I feel more like your _apostle_—I feel when I think of her more like saying my prayers—I feel while sitting by her as if I were doing a meritorious thing; my heart is hushed into a holy content and calm, such as one feels when taking a seat in the church while the organ is pealing ‘gloria in excelsis,’ or the preacher is reading ‘The Lord is in His holy temple—let all the earth keep silence before Him.’” “Do not be irreverent, Gusty.” “Oh, I am not, mother; indeed, so far from it, that I never thought of the Lord so much, worshipped the Lord so much, felt the Lord’s presence in all the beautiful sights and sounds of nature so much, as during that heavenly journey with Rosalia. Let me tell you about it, mother—good, best mother, you know I tell you everything—always did ever since I was a boy.” “Everything, Gusty?” “Well, yes—that is—_almost_ everything. Well, you know after I set out from here, I tried not to think of Hagar, but the more I struggled with the image, the more intensely I thought of her.” “Of course; you should have _fled_ from the subject, fixed your attention on something else—never let your thoughts struggle with a sinful subject—fly from it.”