"But this is not all. I might reconcile myself to this and be content. I love Philip so truly that I think I could sacrifice my dearest, most selfish wishes to him, and be satisfied to see him prosperous and happy. But whether it is a keener sight that I possess, whether it is a natural change that comes to all who submit to the influence of the world, I know not; but Philip is not the same artist--he is not the same man; but this, I think, no one knows; that his pictures have changed is clear to all. Once he worked for the sake of the best; now he works for 'success'; and Esther rates his paintings at the price they bring. But had I lived even this might have been. Yet this is not all. The sting, the bitterness of my bereavement is in my knowledge that we are parted for ever. If Philip had not grown so far away from me in the years in which he has not known me, I could expect some happy reunion with him; but this man will need me no more in Heaven than he now does upon earth. If I could now return to him and take Esther's place by his side, I would jar upon him, displease him. He might love me, but there would be little affinity between us. And I--have I not changed? has not my ignorance turned to bitterness, my confidence to disbelief? But it seems to me that a little sunshine would bring back all that was sweet or good in me--yet I cannot tell. But this I know: in the future the soul of this man will lay no claim to mine. We get nothing without its price, and Philip has paid for a second love by the loss of all he once thought dearest. Still it may be best, it may be right. "As for myself, some change is coming to me. It must be so, or I would not be here to-night. You know what perhaps is to occur; you know how long I was to linger; but of this I cannot speak. If I shall never see him again, do you think I can talk of it? "But, child, it fills me with wonder as I think that the spirit world in which I have so long dwelt, of which I know nothing, is now, perhaps, to be revealed to me. I have no fear of it. I believe that when I enter Paradise--and I cannot believe that its doors are for ever closed against me--that in some way the lost love of my husband, the misled affection of my child, will be made up to me. Heaven defrauds us of nothing; and as we are created to love and be loved, is it not true that there must be compensation somewhere if it is torn from us, or denied to us? "But be that as it may," she said, looking down upon her companion with sad and tender eyes. "You are a woman, and I have a charge to give you. I warn you, child, that your love to Heaven cannot be too strong; your love for man too true; but while you give to man the sweetness and comfort of your life, you must look to Heaven alone for faithfulness." * * * * * When the girl looked up again, the morning star shone over the sea, a fresh wind blew out of the yellowing sky, but she was alone upon the sands.