"When a flash of truth hath found thee, Where thy foot in darkness trod, When thick clouds dispart around thee, And them standest near to God. When a noble soul comes near thee, In whom kindred virtues dwell, That from faithless doubts can clear thee, And with strengthening love compel; O these are moments, rare fair moments; Sing and shout, and use them well!" --PROF. BLACKIE. Richard was the first to remember how many little matters of importance were to be attended to. The Bishop sighed, and looked at the three young faces around him. Perhaps the same thought was in every heart, though no one liked to utter it. A kind of chill, the natural reaction of extreme enthusiasm was about to fall upon them. Phyllis rose. "Let us say 'good-night,' now," she said; "it is so easy to put it off until we are too tired to say it bravely." "Go to the piano, Phyllis. We will say it in song;" and the Bishop lifted a hymn book, opened it, and pointed out the hymn to Richard and John. "Come, we will have a soldier's hymn, two of as grand verses as Charles Wesley ever wrote: "Captain of Israel's host, and Guide Of all who seek the land above, Beneath thy shadow we abide, The cloud of thy protecting love: Our strength thy grace, our rule thy word, Our end the glory of the Lord. "By thy unerring Spirit led, We shall not in the desert stray; We shall not full direction need; Nor miss our providential way; As far from danger as from fear, While love, almighty love, is near." The Bishop and Richard went with John to New Orleans in the morning. Phyllis was glad to be alone. She had tried to send her lover away cheerfully; but there is always the afterward. The "afterward" to Phyllis was an extreme sadness that was almost lethargy. Many crushed souls have these fits of somnolent depression; and it does no good either to reproach them, or to point out that physical infirmity is the cause. They know what the sorrowful sleep of the apostles in the garden of Olivet was, and pity them. Phyllis wept slow, heavy tears until she fell into a deep slumber, and she did not awaken until Harriet was spreading the cloth upon a small table for her lunch. "Dar, Miss Phill! I'se gwine to bring you some fried chicken and some almond puddin', and a cup of de strongest coffee I kin make. Hungry sorrow is mighty bad to bear, honey!" "Has Master Richard come back?" "Not he, Miss Phill. He's not a-gwine to come back till de black night drive him, ef there's any thing strange 'gwine on in de city; dat's de way wid all men--aint none of dem worth frettin' 'bout." "Don't say that, Harriet." "Aint, Miss Phill; I'se bound to say it. Look at Mass'r John! gwine off all in a moment like; mighty cur'ous perceeding--mighty cur'ous!" "He has gone to fight in a grand cause." "Dat's jist what dey all say. Let any one beat a drum a thousand miles off, and dey's all on de rampage to follow it."