"How could I," thought he, "be so cruel to my own Faith! Her life ought to be all sunshine and gladness, and would be but for me, and I must sadden and darken it with the baleful imaginings of a distempered mind. I must struggle harder and pray oftener and more fervently to be preserved from myself. And now my soul feels the need of communing with the Infinite Spirit. What fitter place for adoration than the stillness of these old woods? Here worldly interruptions cannot come, and the veil between Him and His creature is withdrawn." He stopped. He looked up into the sky, and watched the clouds floating in the blue. He glanced at the sun flaming in golden magnificence. His eyes fell on the hoary stems of the giants of the forest. He saw the trailing arbutus, the delicious herald of warmer suns and softer winds, creeping to his feet, and raised his hands to heaven and repeated the lines of Milton-- These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above the heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works: yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine. He stooped down and picked a few bunches of the arbutus, and put them in his bosom. "Faith loves flowers," he said, "and the sweetness and whiteness of these are types of herself." He was now quite calm, and realized fully where he was. It is strange, he thought, how I came hither. I am like Philip, whom the Spirit caught away. He continued his walk, striving to drive away the gloomy ideas, which, in spite of his resistance, threatened again to master him. With his eyes bent upon the ground, he proceeded some distance, when a slight noise attracted his attention. He raised his eyes, and discovered the cause. Five or six men were approaching, bearing, between them, something on some boards. Mr. Armstrong stopped, and, as they came near, perceived, it was the body of the drowned fisherman. "Fate," he murmured between his teeth, "has driven me here. It was meet that the murderer should be confronted by his victim." The men, when they had surmounted the steep river bank, tired with the weight, put down the corpse near where Armstrong stood. He walked up to it, and gazed upon the face. The men, solemnized by the mournful task, and respecting the feelings of Armstrong, whom they all knew, preserved silence. There was no expression of pain upon the features. They wore the calm, impassive look of marble. The eyes and mouth were wide open--efforts to close them had been in vain--but, there was no speculation in the former, and the soul played no more around the latter. The long brown hair, from which the water dripped, hung in disorder over the forehead and down the neck. Armstrong knelt on the withered leaves, by the side of the corpse, and parted the hair with his fingers.