PART FIRST

III ADELE HERSELF

IT is not so much what was said, as who said it and how they said it, that will convey an adequate impression of the charm exerted by Adele upon those she met. Of her two dozen desperately intimate friends at school, each had been known to exclaim, “Why, of course I know her; isn’t she just too lovely for anything?” and that covered the whole ground.

When during college days a coterie of Juniors decided to invite some Seniors to “a tea,”—not “to tea,” for all were excruciatingly academic at that period, there was a spirited debate as to the special duties of each girl during the function, but not the slightest doubt that Adele should head the Reception Committee. “Why, my dear, she’s just the one for that place. Don’t you see it? We’ll show them the proper ’pose.’”

As a matter of fact, Adele did receive; also “poured out” at times; also introduced some strangers to her own kindred spirits to banish any feeling of uneasiness; and finally achieved the undoubted triumph of making two girls friends again, the girls much excited, holding diametrically opposite opinions upon the momentous question of Cleopatra’s cruelty to animals.

When she graduated, valedictorian of her class, she made an address neither too long nor too short, not unlike her gown, precisely as it should be,—pointedly academic to start with and meet the case, then somewhat more colloquial, recalling the good times they all had passed, and concluding with a touching appeal “never to forget Alma Mater.” The entire class mentally promised they never would, “nor you either, Adele,” and she was deluged with so many future-correspondents that the prospect became really alarming.

When she made her début, scarcely an evening passed that some “man” did not tell her confidentially: “You look lovely to-night, Miss Cultus;” and when upon a certain full-dress occasion she sat with Mr. Warder on the stairway, presumably with none but the old stand-up clock to listen, the first remark she heard was, “Oh, I’m so glad, Miss Cultus, we can have a chat, alone!” “Alone!” exclaimed Adele. “Why, certainly, alone in the crowd,”—and as she drew her skirts aside to allow four other couples and a queue of waiters to pass, her clear responsive laugh appreciative of the situation, made Mr. Warder enjoy the public seclusion immensely.

Evidently there was a personal magnetism about Adele which affected all more or less, and many whose own characteristics were totally unlike hers.

At a glance anyone would have noticed her light hair flowing free, yet under control, tinged with sunlight, the sunlight of youth; hers was a fair complexion like her mother’s, yet with her father’s lustrous eyes. She was a blonde with dark eyes; once seen, a picture in the mind’s eye.

Her father’s facial expression played over her countenance, manifesting that responsive personal interest which drew many to her. Her mother, as we already know, could express that responsive attitude also, and exercise the personal influence when she chose, but with Adele it was spontaneous, perfectly natural, and her smile sincere, ingenuous, rather than ingenious, one of the most precious and potent gifts a woman can possess.

And some of her other gifts by heredity were also very evident, but modified. Dame Nature had been exceedingly kind, and given her as it were only those elements which intensified the better traits of the previous generations. Her active mind reminded one of her father’s intellectual ability in science, but it was so modified by her mother’s more comprehensive susceptibility and impressionability in many directions, her worldly wisdom and promptness, that in Adele it took a different turn from either one of the parents. Her social instincts could not be suppressed, but fundamentally they tended towards an appreciation and insight of the humanities and ethical subjects rather than the material interests one might look for in the granddaughter of Anthony Gains, or the intellectual abstractions which might have come from the Professor’s mode of thought.

Before graduating, some one asked her what she proposed to do after leaving college, for all felt a brilliant career was open. Adele was rather reserved in answering this question, and generally replied that there was so much which ought to be done in the world, no doubt she would be very busy. But to her mother she confided on one occasion her innermost thought, she “would like to work in the slums.” This so horrified Mamma that Adele’s name was entered upon the fashionable Assembly list for the coming season without delay, as an antidote in case of emergency, although somewhat premature as to time.

It would never do to oppose Adele. She was already unaccustomed to that sort of management, and would assert herself even if she regretted it afterwards. A compromise was in order. She did not go to work in the slums, and did attend fashionable functions with her mother, but after serious conversation with her father on the subject of the practice of medicine by women, and her own observations of the constant demand for trained nurses who would not upset the whole household, she concluded to look into that matter herself, and volunteered to serve in the hospital during war times.

“I must do something to help along; and nobody need know, unless I choose.” It was while thus serving that the Doctor and Paul had first met her, when the Doctor was a patient after his bicycle accident in a miniature cyclone. It was in the hospital that Doctor Wise had first read her hand, and made a note of it as approaching the psychic type more clearly than any other he had then met.

From the Doctor’s point of view Adele’s hand was indeed suggestive, but not so purely psychical as to intimate mysticism to excess. It was rather that of a vivid idealist than a moody mystic,—too much intellectuality in the upper part, as well as assertion in the thumb and clearness in the head-line, not to influence and modify the natural tendency and scope as shown by the general form. It was not the hand of one whose vague aspirations after the good but unattainable would lead to extremes either in the activities of communism or socialistic vagaries, nor in the opposite direction towards the passive life of an ascetic. Either one would have soon disgusted Adele. It was the hand of one who endeavored to be logical, and did have common sense; yet in the exuberance of feeling sometimes put her hero upon a pedestal only to find the pedestal had a crack in it and the hero was in danger. As to the hero himself, he was never affected; she remained true to her hero, no sawdust in him; but she certainly did put him quietly aside on the shelf when she found herself beyond his point of view. She simply put him on the shelf to “think it out for himself,” as she had done for herself,—and in consequence had more would-be heroes following in her train, striving to catch up, than is generally found in the domain of hero worship.

Youth has its sway. Adele was most delightfully enthusiastic at times, often bent upon what she called “having a good time.” Then she was a picture worthy of Fortuny’s art in a sunny Spanish patio; but in quieter moments as introspective as one of Millais’ peasants; rather over-confident in her own resources, having really not met as yet any opposition worthy of the name, unless perhaps a weak patient who refused to take medicine. Then she took a sip herself, and told him “Now you’ve got to take it,” and he did,—because her actions spoke louder even than her words.

Her father had several times told her to read the world as if it were a book, and she had heard her mother refer to certain society leaders who acted a part that did not suit their own style. She determined to know and read all passers-by, from cooks with a sauce-pan to princesses with a crooked coronet, including Tom, Dick and Harry of course; and she found it so highly interesting, that when about eighteen she thought she might—yes—she might, in time,—write a novel herself; in fact she did write the title page, and the chapter on “Direful Conflict,” in which the sauce-pan and coronet almost came to blows. Whether to make that chapter the beginning of her novel or the ending, proved the poser, so it too was put upon the shelf with the heroes.

The most interesting thing to people is people themselves. Adele’s maternal instincts told her this very soon.

Things are of real value about in proportion to the effort they cost. Her instincts from her father suggested this, but she did not believe it at first. It might be, but was not pleasant to think of. She knew well enough that all that glitters is not gold, but sometimes thought that glitter might be when it wasn’t. When she found herself deceived in this respect her conclusions took a pronounced feminine form of expression. “Mother! I don’t think so very much of Mr. Upham they all talk about. He tries to show off—absurdly condescending, and talks as if he knew more about it than anybody else. Nobody really thinks of what he says, only of him. I think him a bore.”

“Well, don’t let him know it, my dear,” promptly answered Mrs. Cultus. “One has to become accustomed to trifles. I generally look the other way and avoid them.”

“I’m not going through the world on stilts, anyhow,” laughed Adele.

“No, my dear, I trust not, nor on a bicycle either; neither is becoming.”

Adele watched her father whenever they went out together, with almost precocious interest. She wished to discover how he made himself so agreeable to others and finally concluded that “Father’s manners are perfection.” She followed her father’s advice quite as naturally as she did her mother’s, the wisdom of which often appealed to her also; but in spite of her affection for both, she soon began to perceive there was something much more subtle in life than worldly wisdom. Things seen were by no means so potent as some other things unseen. She would use the world, but not let it use her. “I shall soon be used up myself” was the way she expressed it after having had rather too much of a good time.

Without actually formulating the pros and cons in her own mind, she really decided not to attempt any part unless she could do justice to it under the stimulus of her own approval.

Things seen, and never ignored, were already becoming subservient to things unseen.

Such was Adele as a girl, and during the few years when her college experience was prime factor in her life.

IV ADELE HEARS THE WORDS OF A SONG

THERE was just enough of chilly winter left to make the springtime fascinating and a wood fire still acceptable in the cozy library where Doctor Wise and his younger friend Paul Warder sat together expecting guests. They occupied bachelor apartments in common. A delicious aroma from wood logs permeated the atmosphere.

There was music also, for the eye as well as the ear. The firelight played in crescendo and diminuendo, with now and again marked rhythm and very peculiar accents. The sound of wheels reverberated clearly in the cool night air and ceased opposite the portal. An expectant waiting, but no response, no frou-frou from silken skirts passing along the hallway as anticipated. Instead, Benson,—Benson the butler, his countenance a foot long.

“Some one, sir!”

“I presume so.”

“Some one, with his—his trunk.”

“His trunk!” The Doctor lowered the bridge of his nose, and peered at Benson over his eye-glasses.

“Yes, sir! a big one.”

“What’s that for? What will he do with it? What will we do with it?”

“Show him up, Benson,” said Paul, promptly; “trunk and all.”

Paul’s eyes twinkled as he vanished through the doorway.

“Never heard of such a thing,” mused the Doctor, “bringing a trunk to a musicale. Must be some mistake! Benson! I say, Benson! Show him next door.”

“Not yet I hope,” and amid shouts of laughter in rushed two fellows,—Paul bringing Henri Semple—“Harry”—of all their musical friends the one most welcome and opportune.

The Doctor was delighted, and gave him a good squeeze—no time for much else.

“Benson! put Mr. Semple’s trunk in his own room, you know the one I mean; and now, Harry, if you don’t get inside that trunk quickly as possible the state of the country will not be safe, an invasion is threatened at any minute. Put on your regimentals at once, and help us out.”

Semple, who understood the Doctor’s lingo from many years back, took in the situation at a glance. He had hardly time to laugh about the Doctor’s being “the same old chappie as ever,” when he was literally thrust towards the stairway, to follow the trunk, and put on his evening clothes.

The episode had been one of Paul’s agreeable surprises so often had in store for the Doctor.

Semple’s name had appeared upon the passenger list of an ocean flyer just arrived. Paul sought him by telephone, caught him, and insisted upon his coming. Semple, already in traveler’s shape, had “hustled” to reach his old friends. The time was short, but Harry in true American fashion had “got there”—that was all, with the regimentals ready to be put on.

It is not necessary to produce the bachelor’s visiting list and mark off all those who honored the occasion with their presence. Paul always made it a point to have plenty of men on hand at his entertainments; whether at chit-chat-musicale or conversational game of whist, all went off with a rush. Those who took their pleasure more seriously were furnished excellent opportunity in the library, while the conversational music-racket progressed in the parlor.

The trio, Doctor, Paul and Semple, were already standing in line, like three serenaders in white waistcoats, when Mrs. Maxwell was ushered in. She had kindly consented to act as matron, knowing all so well; in fact had entertained both Paul and Semple at her picturesque cottage, “The Kedge.” Her vivacious presence at once brought with it a breezy atmosphere from the romantic coast of Maine, where “The Kedge” stood perched like a barnacle upon a boulder, and the winds wafted white spray falling like a lace mantle upon dahlias and nasturtiums at her feet.

And with her Miss Dorothy, her niece, whose charming letters the winter previous from Ischl had given vivid pictures of experience abroad, Vienna life, and Egyptian mysteries known only to herself and the Sphinx.

A dozen or more soon followed. Conversation already at its height when Professor and Mrs. Cultus entered, also their daughter Adele whom the Doctor had before met under such peculiar circumstances at the hospital. Adele looked radiant, having brought with her an intimate friend, Miss Winchester, for whom she had requested an invitation. The Doctor greeted them with both hands, for he had already detected the devotion which had sprung up between these two girls. They seemed a host in themselves wherever they went. He made Miss Winchester feel at home at once, and she accepted the situation promptly; she had the happy faculty of doing that sort of thing. The Doctor enjoyed her frankness. She was like, yet very unlike Adele; no doubt much in common between them, yet of a very different temperament. The inquisitive Doctor perceived this at a glance. “Must read her hand,” he cogitated, for his interest in Adele made him curious to know more of the one to whom Adele seemed especially devoted.

Others dropped in later, the rooms became well filled. The guests sought easy chairs, Paul taking special pains to see that Mrs. Cultus was comfortably settled. Mrs. Cultus in turn had made up her mind to hear Paul sing with the Doctor as accompanist. She had heard that they performed “stunts,” whatever they might prove to be, and now was her opportunity; also, she wished the stunts just as soon as possible. “Keep it up,” said Mrs. Cultus, sotto voce.

Of course Paul could not refuse point blank, but he must be permitted to do so in his own way, for none knew better than he and the Doctor that their music together was of such a peculiar nature that unless led up to judiciously the effect would be utterly ruined. In fact there was nothing in it but “the spirit of the thing,” and little technique whatever except to meet the demand of this spirit of the thing. They had never had either time or inclination to cultivate and keep technique-on-tap,—a thing to be turned on and off like a fountain before an admiring public. Nevertheless, the little they could do gave a deal of pleasure to those not already hypnotized by digital gymnastics, or become satiated from eating too much candy-music.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Cultus’ ideas about leading up to anything in the domain of music had been originally formed upon her experience when leading in the german, and in spite of her short but higher experience in Germany, her natural propensities often prevailed. As to any preparation of the mind and ear for the reception of given musical sounds and kindred forms of artistic and poetic expression, she was lamentably wanting, in fact her tactics often little better than a box of tacks to irritate the acuter sensibilities of those to whom she appealed with so much apparent appreciation. Mrs. Cultus never listened for the tone-color, simply because she could not constitutionally; she really could not, it was not in her to hear what she could hear.

The music commenced, and Mrs. Cultus waited for the stunts. Henri Semple opened with some of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, charmingly vivacious and contagious, also played in some duets with the Doctor on Creole and Florida negro themes. Racial and national dance music seemed not a bad overture to harmonize with the gay spirits already in vogue, yet lead on to something else. Herr Krantz then favored the company with some German songs; he appreciated the value of continuity, yet did not ignore the power of contrast. Herr Krantz was an artist; his first song in rather quick tempo with a dramatic climax, his second full of suppressed emotion; each most artistic in effect. All enjoyed his robust tenor voice, also his admirable interpretation of the sentiment of what he sang. Mrs. Cultus and the Doctor led in the applause; Mrs. Cultus because she detected that the whole thing was as it ought to be, especially the dramatic climax of the first song, and the tears suggested when the second song died away. Mrs. Cultus was much given to applauding when songs died away in tears, she wished the singer to understand that he died with good effect. The Doctor admired all artistic productions and renditions of any kind; even a good performance on a jew’s-harp or a xylophone was appreciated by him from the standpoint of art as art. If it did not manifest the sacred fire of the soul above all else, it was to be enjoyed and applauded nevertheless, as truth for its own sake, if not the highest form of truth through musical expression. He had heard mocking-birds sing like nightingales, yet they were not the veritable rossignole; he had long since learned that perfect technique was not the only way of expression, since the sacred fire burst through all bounds and made terrible mistakes (technical), yet was truth enduring, truth soaring towards immortality and enduring as memory endures.

Paul in the meantime had induced Miss Winchester to follow Herr Krantz; and since his German artistic rendition had excited her imagination, her fingers fairly twitched with desire to respond, ready to the interpretation of what she felt. She knew she could play well because in the mood, delicious sensation.

Miss Winchester’s talent for melodic expression was decidedly of the romantic school. Her idol was Schumann, and at times Tschaikowsky, but never when in their morbid humor, then she shut up their compositions and left them to be morbid alone, not with her. Fact is, Miss Winchester’s versatility and intellectual vivacious activity were so pronounced that she could render many original or rare wild fanciful “morceaux,” provided they were vivacious and embodied with personal experience, or what one might call the racial or national rhythm of those people who did sing and dance naturally. She and her brother were both extremely gifted in this respect, and to hear them play together was not unlike attempting to enjoy two glasses of champagne at the same time.

Miss Winchester was soon leading the whole company through some Mexican danzas with a spontaneous abandon perfectly delightful; then some half-Spanish or old-time Creole reminiscences, very dansante in their time and place, and yet with a peculiar strain of languor which pictured the sunny southern clime in one of its most characteristic moods. Also one of her brother’s waltzes which quite lifted the hearer off his feet, very difficult to interpret as she did; simply because not being a singing waltz, neither of the kind that draws the feet downwards towards the floor in tempo strict and strong, but quite the contrary lifts the dancer up, carries him beyond, without fatigue, borne upon the wings of time into the realm of graceful motion.

Mrs. Cultus could not quite make out whether this strange rhapsodical style of waltzing was quite up to the standard of the occasion. It certainly was rather effective, but not as she ever remembered hearing it in the german. “’Twas impossible to count two or three to such a thing as that and keep up with it;” therefore suspicious. So the politic Mrs. Cultus hid behind her jewelled lorgnette, looking alternately at the performer and the audience before making up her mind.

The susceptible Doctor was quite fascinated, translated, as he entered into the spirit of the thing. He thought of scenes in Delibes’ ballets, of Sylvia and Coppelia, also of the wonderful grace of Beaugrand upon Walpurgis night when she first appears enveloped by a cloud descending upon the stage, the cloud disappearing, the dancer wafted forward to whirl amid a maze of fascinating melody.

Adele and Paul also could not resist the temptation to “try it in the hall,” but soon gave that up; Adele expecting to sing herself, therefore careful of her voice, and Paul because the fascination was quite sufficient without the dancing just then. They were again caught sitting on the stairs under the benign countenance of “Fanny,” the old family clock, who ticked on solemnly as if accustomed to witness waltzing and flirtations, in past times as well as to-night,—this when the Doctor put in an appearance to ask Adele to sing.

Adele was an enchanting personification of youthful enjoyment when Paul led her into the room, her dark eyes lustrous and full of fire, yet but little conscious of self when she at once dropped Paul’s arm to rush up to Miss Winchester and thank her for the treat she had given them. “I never heard you play better in my life, my dear! Oh, how I wish I could do it!” and then, feeling her own position, became more subdued in manner as she approached the piano. Henri Semple had kindly offered to accompany her—they had often sung together as she called it, so felt in unity at once. Only a word was necessary to Henri, “Please go straight on, if I should trip I’ll catch up again.” Henri smiled and began the introduction.

Adele first sang a rather pretentious florid aria. Her mother had insisted upon this, evidently thinking that all should be informed at once that her daughter had been educated under the best masters, as she herself had been under Fraulein Ritter. Adele complied with her mother’s request, even if she herself had different notions as to the result. Mrs. Cultus had “dropped her music” soon after the bills had been paid for her education, and never picked it up again except in nursery rhymes for Adele. Those nursery songs had won their way to Adele’s heart, she sometimes sang them yet, but their greatest triumph had been to excite within her a desire to really sing herself. She now proposed to hold on and not drop what she had striven for, to make her voice the means towards expression of higher things, feelings which words could not always express. As to the florid aria to commence with, “Oh, yes! it would do to try the voice and bring out the notes, but the real thing must not be expected until later.”

Her innermost thoughts were quite in this vein when enthusiastic applause greeted her singing. She had sung well. Herr Krantz complimented her, evidently sincere, so she took his appreciation sincerely, but soon turned to Mr. Semple to select something more to her own taste. She chose a composition with which she was very familiar, one of her special favorites, and passed it to Henri.

Semple glanced it over, and being himself of kindred spirit with her own at once detected certain signs,—how it had been well used but carefully handled, certain passages marked, some private marks, evidently her own.

“Miss Cultus, don’t you play this accompaniment yourself?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I thought so—let me resign!”

“Don’t you know it?—it’s not difficult.”

“So I see, but I’m sure none could play it exactly as you would feel it.”

Adele knew this to be true; no one could really accompany the songs she really loved so completely to her own satisfaction as herself, that was the way she had learned to love them.

“You won’t be offended if I do?”

Semple responded at once and stood beside her, but he felt intensely curious to know exactly why, since she was so different from many, she desired to do so with this particular piece,—the accompaniment did not appear to be especially exacting, so he asked her about the peculiarities of the composition.

“I like to be near the composer, near as I can,” was all she said in reply, and without further ado seated herself at the instrument.

Some noticing her movement were disappointed, others delighted; the latter were those who loved music which came from the heart,—the former those who admired what came from the head.

The Doctor asked her father if she preferred to accompany herself. “Only at times,” said the Professor, and he appeared rather serious himself when he observed the mood she was in. It would probably be Adele at her best, but by no means likely to command the most general appreciation. Then he told the Doctor: “She knows that head and heart must work together as one if any true emotion is to come with the music, and she thinks this is such a subtle matter in her own case that she must become as near like the composer himself as she possibly can to render the music as he originally conceived and felt it. She insists that every good song is fundamentally emotional, the spirit dominating the art. To get close to this spirit in the piece, to become the composer and try to re-create the piece, is what she is after. One soul and mind, the voice soul and the artistic accompaniment; both had come originally from one creative source, the composer, whose whole being must have throbbed with one emotion when he wrote the piece if worth anything. Those who would really feel the same emotion must try to be like him and follow him in spirit and in truth. She wishes to reproduce the intimate sympathetic blending of voice and accompaniment which the composer had felt when he wrote the song.”

“How intensely she must feel!” said the Doctor, pensive, and turned to listen, giving attention to the singer to recognize her personality as creator for the time being of the song,—the singer giving new life, a renaissance or resurrection to the song.

What Adele sang was a melody by Gounod with simple chords in the accompaniment, the piano filling in like a second voice when her own was not prominent. The second voice sang with her, that is, to her and for her, and the two blended as one, a veritable duet of heart and head as one. The piano gave the atmosphere in which the melody lived, moved and had its being, and the melody itself was the voice of a living soul singing in truth and purity.

To sing it as she did required intense mental effort, herself under admirable control;—the dominating emotional spirit within. It was the divine art, the purity in the art, hence divine in origin. Art dominated by the Spirit of Truth that is Holy, in Music. Music as Truth, for a religious fervor lay deep within the song. It was the overflow of her own feelings which others heard and felt, yet she sang as if no one was present,—none,—herself alone,—Adele an Idyl. As she continued, the melody seemed to gain in spiritual significance, so pure, so true, so simply lovely, the good, true and beautiful, as one, a trinity of inner experience, and thus possessing a high spiritual significance. All who heard, associated with her voice their own best thoughts. They “became one” with her,—and while she thus led them towards higher and better things, the melody soared upon the wings of a dove, rising as if nearing the celestial choir. It did not diminish, grow less, nor die away, but passed from hearing; it was heard, and then it was not heard, gone—gone to live among the melodies of immortality, for the truth in her music had made it an immortal song—none could ever forget, neither her, her song, nor how she sang it.

“How angelic!” whispered those who heard her.

“She is an angel,” said her mother, who knew her best.

The Doctor mused; he was still thinking some time after the song ceased. There was to him a feeling of both exhaustion and exaltation,—the human and the divine in his own personality.

As to Paul,—the emotion was rather strong for him, rather too much just then, the complications of feeling decidedly confusing, especially as he would be called upon to sing next. He felt perfectly limp. “What on earth can I do, after an angel has carried the whole crowd into the upper regions!”

The suppressed applause which followed Adele’s sacred song had hardly ceased, the hum of appreciation still heard, and Adele herself about to ask Henri Semple for the bouquet of American Beauties which he held for her, when she caught the eye of Paul and gave him a slight inclination of the head to approach.

Paul had been asked to sing next. She knew it,—she also knew the style of his music, that it could not possibly sound to advantage immediately after her own success. She also knew Paul’s sensibility, yet desire to oblige. In the kindness of her heart, now so sensitive from the holy spirit in music which had prompted her singing, she wished in some way to aid Paul to bridge over the dilemma into which her mother’s lack of appreciation of the personal element in music threatened to lead him, for it was Mrs. Cultus who had insisted upon his singing as soon as Adele finished.

May it not also be said that Adele herself was about to take another step forward in her musical career? namely, by a very practical appreciation of the vast domain of melodic expression,—in other words the comprehensiveness of “the art of putting things” and the wonderful difference in methods and means by which spiritual effects may be produced. She knew that Paul’s voice did appeal to mankind, at least to some, quite as positively as her own; he also was sensitive about it, but his emotional feeling was so different from her own. She wished to be altruistic, and assure Paul fair treatment.

Paul joined her. “I never heard you sing better.”

“I’m glad you were here,—I felt like it,—Gounod is a great friend of mine.”

“I wish I had a friend on hand.”

“How so?”

“To sing for me, my voice is scared to death.”

“It doesn’t sound that way, but I know what you mean.”

“’Pon honor!—the crudity of it! and then to be asked to sing after you.”

“Never mind that, think of the music, and forget yourself.”

“What! forget the music and think of myself!” He had hardly uttered the thought upside down before it seemed to suggest something to him. He said nothing, however, for a moment, and then seemed to brace up, and began talking about other things, until Mrs. Cultus approached.

Adele knew, or rather thought she knew, that if her mother pressed him too hard in his present mood she might receive a refusal in return, a polite apology for not singing. Much to her surprise, Paul consented with considerable cordiality, saying he would do his best gladly; but there was a twinkle in his eye which he could not disguise as he said it. Adele wondered what the twinkle meant. Mamma felt sure he would do “stunts.”

What had influenced Paul so suddenly? The twisted words giving a new association of ideas had suggested yet another motive for singing. “Forget the music, and think of you, Adele.” He had thought of a songlet which did just that sort of thing—he would try it.

Why had Adele failed to appreciate the twinkle? Simply because she did not then know him well enough to recognize one of the strongest elements in his character, namely, a certain sure reserve power which men of his type are apt to possess, and manifest in positions of this sort with marked individuality in form of expression. Paul was just such a man.

With him it had been Adele’s first song, the florid aria to show off her voice, which had made the passing impression, not the second; in fact, the train of thought first excited had continued on through Adele’s second song, blinding him to a certain extent,—so that although he did hear the beautiful finale when her voice passed from hearing, he was preoccupied; he heard it only as another instance of her highly cultivated technique, nothing more. Its real spiritual significance had been lost upon him because his mind was preoccupied in another direction. Having ears he had not heard, yet being what he was, he had; consequently his impressions of her performance were complicated. He had appreciated her cultivated voice as fully, probably, as any in the room, but also remembered how at the hospital some time before she had sung much less ambitious music which excited even greater sympathy, bringing tears rather than applause. He did not wish Adele to lose her charm in that respect, and now, in his present frame of mind, feared lest she might do so. In fact, being somewhat askew in his own mind, yet rather sensitive about her, he jumped to the conclusion that she might give up the old simplicity of real power in order to electrify society by flights of vocalization. Thus the spirituality of a sincere, practical man did not differ fundamentally from that of another with greater æsthetic and artistic development, but the manifestation of it took an entirely different form.

Evidently Paul was quite as much interested in Adele’s success as she was in his,—but how different the motive and varied the form of expressing the emotion. Paul determined to give her some sort of a hint as to how he felt, and in a way she alone would recognize. If he had been older, no doubt he would have told her so direct, but youth is fonder of playing games in which self-reliance takes a prominent part. He made up his mind to sing anyhow, and quick as a flash the thought had come to him, “her effect was through the music, not the words, why not forget the music and think of the words?—try it with a style and with a purpose so different from hers that no comparison can possibly be in order?” He would force attention to the words rather than the music, and compel the audience to listen for the sake of the words. As to sentiment! His eyes twinkled as he thought of it; the audience could interpret that, each after his own fashion,—as for him, he would forget the music and think of Adele.

Paul went to the piano, telling Adele not to listen, as it was only some verses from “Life” which the Doctor had set to music. This was quite enough to excite Adele’s curiosity, and made her more attentive even than the others.

Paul’s voice was a rich baritone with but little cultivation, and fresh as nature had given it to him, with some few rich masculine notes as soft as velvet. When he felt intensely, yet kept himself under control, and the song brought into play those particular notes, Paul could make even a society reporter listen with sincerity. His articulation being clear, the listeners heard the words without effort, and the music became a harmonious medium of communication.

Much to his satisfaction he felt this mood coming over him. The Doctor, too, knew by his manner that Paul would be at his best, so played the accompaniment to sustain the voice, yet allow expression absolutely free with Paul,—a condition of things only possible to those who have personal sympathy as well as melodic instinct.

Each line of the song told its own tale;—the sentiment, not the cultivation of the voice nor accompaniment, attracted attention;—a few gestures gave the proper emphasis.

The effect was peculiar. Some caught what they thought were puns in the words, and called for a repetition to catch them better; others said the fellow was a fool to give up the girl so soon,—she was not really so unfair as she appeared to him. Society amused itself hugely over the absurd situation.

Adele turned to the Doctor. “I don’t care for that song.”

“No! Why?”

“The girl was misunderstood.”

“How strange! I didn’t see it that way at all,” said the Doctor.

“What did you see?”

“The young lady did not appreciate her admirer.”

“What is it called?” asked Adele.

“A Paradox.”

Paul overheard them and noticed an introspective expression on Adele’s countenance. Was she trying to recall the words? He would make sure of them, so in response to the encore repeated after this fashion:

And as he sang, the peculiar twinkle in his eyes again appeared. To the hearers it seemed very appropriate to the song, part of the spirit of the thing. Paul was more interested as to how it would affect Adele.

Adele was more confused than ever. Did he, or did he not, intend anything? She hardly knew how she ought to address him the next minute. It would be foolish to lay any stress upon such a song, merely a play upon words at best; yet her womanly instinct told her it might mean a great deal. She had no time, however, to think much about it, and did not care much anyhow, so tried to put the matter quite aside.

“What absurd words!—not so bad either ... but he certainly made them tell,” and she looked around the room as if to notice what others thought.

People were still discussing the Paradox.

“The impression seems to last,” said she.

The Doctor caught her final word.

“What lasts, Miss Adele?”

A twinkle in her eye this time.

“Paul’s song,—wasn’t it amusing?” and they both laughed heartily.

“The supper is served,” whispered a waiter to the Doctor, and shortly after Adele was seen entering the supper-room on the Doctor’s arm. Paul escorted Miss Winchester.

V AFTER DARK IN THE PARK

AFTER the guests had departed the Doctor decided he would fill his lungs with fresh air by a short stroll in the park before retiring. Thus to saunter was a favorite experience with him after an evening spent in close quarters. He could be alone, yet not alone,—in the world, yet not of it.

“These breathing places are delicious,” he mused, “good for all, day or night; to the poor a blessed change from close and narrow homes, and to the wealthy if they only knew it, from their over-heated rooms. Fresh air in the lungs and a good quaff of pure water are the most healthy somnorifics I know. Thank Heaven, this park furnishes such luxuries to all.” This as he took a seat near a fountain which overflowed conveniently for the thirsty wayfarer.

The trees overhead were coming into new leaf, and the grass plots newly trimmed,—the resurrection of spring evidently near at hand. Arc lights from a distance shone through, giving a silvery lustre to the undersides of the new foliage, and a radiant glow which permeated the long vista.

He looked above into the azure,—it was a starlit night; also towards the horizon, down one of the wide avenues which intersected at the park. Upon a public building in the distance some statuary above the cornice stood distinct in outline against the sky, but from time to time the figures were obscured by clouds of smoke or steam enveloping as in a luminous mist. The figures came and went as if they themselves were endowed with movement. He watched the smoke-mist, tracing to its source,—a press establishment,—the newspaper workers busy while the public slept. He hoped that to-morrow’s issue might bring news of something better than the smoke of war, mists of politics, and the vile conflicts of the debased side of humanity. Why not accentuate the good in the world instead of the evil? Such would be the way of truth in life, to overcome the evil with the good. But he did not feel very sanguine that to-morrow’s issue would be of that sort,—certainly not so long as the use and abuse of head-lines purposely to mislead the public for the sake of cash obtained.

He then looked more carefully at the fountain. It was a gift to the city from a dear friend of both himself and Paul, their old friend John Burlington, whose philanthropy took many practical forms for the benefit of the public. He skirted the park on his way out, and noticed a barber shop across the street in which a few days previous he had been shaved. Why that particular shop? Because therein he had been shaved by a young woman, of whom in justice it must be said she did it remarkably well. “Woman’s sphere is rapidly increasing,” he mused, “but in such matters, at what a terrible risk and sacrifice of womanly reserve; a gain in wages and publicity, a loss of refinement and the other feminine attributes. Is not woman’s head-gear sufficiently complicated already to furnish employment to experts of her own sex without attempting to scrape a man’s chin? Certainly the latter was a risky business for a woman to attempt on short notice.”

There was a hotel on the corner. He stopped to purchase a cigar, but it was too late. Too late for that, but not too late for others passing in and out. A couple passed through an inconspicuous entrance with a peculiar dim lantern in the vestibule near by, and soon disappeared. They appeared to be sneaking in, yet perfectly familiar with the premises.

A gay crowd of young people on bicycles passed by; it seemed unusually late to see so many out. As they wheeled off, talking in high spirits, there was naught, however, to distinguish them from a party of industrious young workers who had been kept indoors during the day, and whose youth demanded outdoor exercise, even if it had to be taken after dark.

“Where are their parents? still snoozing?” queried the Doctor,—“a ride after midnight may lead to a ‘skip by the light of the moon,’ but that’s none of my business,” and the bachelor doctor wended his way back towards his own domicile.

He was just about to enter when he spied a slight, agile figure, an elderly lady dressed in black, approaching and motioning to detain him. He could not mistake that light airy step, the nervous activity, the characteristic gestures. It must surely be she whose activity in good works he had known so long and well, yet he little expected to see her alone in the public street at that hour.

He ran down to meet her, took her arm under his and begged her to come in.

“I can’t, my dear, positively I can’t,” in a voice sweet and cheerful, as if she wished it but was too busy.

“Well, let me escort you home, then,” insisted the Doctor.

“No, my dear, not necessary at all, not a bit. I never have any difficulty at night. I wouldn’t take you on any account. I’ve been to the——” and she hesitated.

“Well, what can I do for you, Aunt Mary?”

She smiled as if the name was most welcome,—patted the Doctor on the back, called him one of “her boys,” and stopped a minute to chat.

But who was Aunt Mary?

One of those excellent, self-sacrificing Christian women, loving and lovable, whose whole life was devoted to helping and encouraging those in distress. Her vocation especially among the worthy poor, where her heart was ever willing, and her activity constant in their behalf; striving to bring hope and efficient aid to those who were struggling against adversity, kindness where it was most needed, affection where it was seldom met. Among many friends she had a small coterie of gentlemen whom she called her boys. To these she appealed in emergencies, and was sure to receive without further inquiry, simply because “Aunt Mary wanted it.” As sometimes the case with Christian women of her active, sympathetic, sanguine type, she had been led to join a few others in the work of redemption conducted under the auspices of the Midnight Mission. Aunt Mary was returning from the Mission when she caught sight of the Doctor, her heart full to overflowing about some hopeful cases among the unfortunate outcasts she had met. Like an Angel of Mercy she had been spending her evening talking with purity of thought and action to some, and waiting for others who might wander in from the streets. She had been holding out her arms to welcome, to give shelter in the Home—Christ-like—“Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

As the Doctor left Aunt Mary at the door of her own modest home, his thoughts reverted irresistibly to his evening’s experience considered as a whole.

The lights and shadows of city life, the contrasts, the changes that a day may bring forth. Then of the countless fields of work for truth as each one sees it in his own environment. Surely the Christ life was the most beautiful and helpful of all.

He recalled how Adele Cultus had once experienced an ardent desire to work in the slums and been prevented by circumstances, yet continued to progress in her own sphere. He thought he detected a spiritual similarity between her and Aunt Mary, yet to outward view there was little to suggest such comparison; yet again there was, for the elderly sympathy for others might have once in youth taken a youthful form of expression,—and the present youthful girl who began by sympathy for others might yet attain to her ideals.

Then his thoughts wandered off in quite another direction. The fresh foliage in the park had forcibly reminded him of the coming season for travel, the time had arrived to make final arrangements for a contemplated trip abroad. Paul and he had so decided during the winter, and already engaged state-rooms. They had often spent summers in England and on the Continent, and this time looked forward to a longer absence than usual,—a visit to Greece, and possibly to the Far East. The Doctor had longed to stand upon a pinnacle of the Himalayas, having then about as much idea of what a pinnacle in that region might prove to be, as many possess of the veritable north pole.

His thoughts were certainly vague, yet again quite definite after their kind. When he turned in to bed and began to enter the domain of Travellers’ Hope, he thought he saw Aunt Mary attending meeting in Exeter Hall, London, and Adele Cultus playing golf with the divinities on Olympus. He was hoping Adele would win, when—he forgot to notice whether she did or not.

VI AN AVATAR IN THE OCCIDENT—THE THEOPHANY OF SPRING

THE advent of spring brought with it the spirit of locomotion to many others besides the Doctor and Paul,—it generally does to a sane mind in a healthy body. With the resurrection of new life comes the exuberant desire to live in the open, more freely, and have one’s being in action, to exercise “thought, being and joy” to the fullest extent.

To none was this more forcibly true than to Adele Cultus, whose whole being responded when the sun shone forth and the birds sang. This condition of things had been greatly strengthened in her limited experience thus far, by a conversation she once had with her father, when she sought his advice in connection with teaching a class in Sunday-School. It was soon after she graduated, and although she was by no means ignorant of academic phraseology in regard to certain matters, she was not satisfied; she wanted a simpler, useful way of expressing facts involving doctrine, and had asked her father a direct question which might have proved a poser to some parents, but certainly not to Professor Cultus, who earnestly desired that his daughter should be spared the mental strife in his own experience over moral and ethical questions involving discussion which really did not help towards better living. The Professor detected that she wished to talk with him seriously; so he drew her towards him, made her sit upon his knee that she might feel near him in love and affection,—comfortably at home while her spirit sought the truth.

“Well, my daughter, what can Father do to help you? Any college conundrums? Life is full of conundrums, you know!”

Adele smiled. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. But what I want is a simple answer—my class must understand, and think about it afterwards.”

“Perhaps you know the answer yourself, already,” said the Professor, “and only wish to quiz me.”

Adele shifted her position on his knee, as if uneasy. “Why, of course I know; I suppose everybody knows,—but I want to be helped. Knowing is not enough. What is sin, anyhow? I know it’s detestable, but I can’t help it. That’s about all I do know, really.”

The Professor drew a breath of relief. Adele saw her father’s eyes brighten, and instantly felt that he would help her.

“Not such a poser as you think,” said the Professor, with marvelous cheerfulness, considering the topic, “although an immense amount has been written about it which certainly is confusing.” Adele, noticing that to him it certainly was not so gloomy as she had expected, at once felt at ease also.

“I don’t care what has been written about it to confuse,—what is it? Some speak of a particular sin first committed by Adam and Eve, and we have inherited it from them. Well, Father dear, I don’t believe I inherited sin from you, even if I do have it myself. God in Heaven is Love,—I can’t believe such a thing of Him. Every baby I look at tells me it isn’t sinful. Why, they stretch out their little hands to you to take ’em in your arms.”

Her father appeared rather more solemn in aspect than before; experiencing a peculiar paternal sensation of mysterious responsibility. He let Adele continue.

“Others,” said she, “speak as if it were a condition we each have to experience for some reason or other. That seems reasonable, because we do. But it’s very confusing to teach, or even to talk of to any one else, even if we all do have the experience. What is it, anyhow?” and she looked at her father straight in the eyes.

A strong, impressive, additional experience, which was inspiring for both of them, resulted; and Adele afterwards looked back upon it as one of life’s turning points, if not a veritable crisis.

Truth paternal, as if direct from “Our Father,” rose instantly within the innermost consciousness of Professor Cultus, father of his beloved daughter sitting on his knee, seeking the truth where she believed it could be found. He knew intuitively what sort of definition could alone satisfy Adele at that time in her life. He must speak the pure helpful truth in sincerity, just as he saw it himself, no more, no less:—and this being the case, the Holy Spirit of Truth in Life gave him power of utterance. He answered promptly. Adele never forgot his words, or to be more precise, the wonderful concept as to facts in nature which his words instilled within her own personality. The thoughts engendered became a part of her being, and produced a purer atmosphere for body, mind and heart.

“Adele, my darling, think of life this way. Truth is like the light, the light you see with your physical eyes;—and light is as righteousness. Sin, as you know, your conscience tells you so, is the absence of righteousness; and this precisely as darkness is the absence of light. Christ, the historic Jesus of Nazareth, is well known, to those who know Him personally, and therefore most competent to judge, as the Light of the World in regard to spiritual life. It was He, among all the founders of the great historic religions, who really, truly, brought that spiritual life and immortality into the brighter light we now enjoy. His personality, as the very source of this light which enlightens, grows clearer and more potent as the history of the world progresses; His personality the most enlightening influence ever known in human experience and the progress of civilizations. He was a thoroughly truthful, righteous man, actuated by love for humanity; whose life, words, deeds and sufferings for truth’s sake, embodied the truth, and nothing but the truth. And now, Adele, with these thoughts about the Light of the World one can understand better, and more light will shine upon your inquiry.

“If one does not live in the good light of righteousness and seek the very brightest and best he can get, then such a person will certainly be more or less in the dark,—the darkness of sin. Of course this condition of living away from the light given us will result in violations of the divine laws in nature, a breaking of the divine rule of duty which is to seek the light of truth, not darkness. Adele, your conscience will tell you the truth, therefore always turn from darkness towards light. Go out into the world somewhere when you can’t see clearly in your mind, and look upwards, the spiritual light will soon come to you, my darling; but be sure to look upwards, always upwards, beyond yourself,—toward the Light of the World.”

“I never did like cloudy days,” mused Adele,—and then audibly, to encourage her father to continue—“I think I know what you mean, Father; please go on.”

“Let me tell you a great secret,” said her father, drawing her still closer. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and was intensely desirous that she should be spared those unnecessary troubles in this life from which he himself had suffered. “Let me tell you a great secret, Adele, one of the most practical mysteries in nature, because able to banish many worries from your own heart-life. Don’t bother, my dear, about overcoming sin, or sins, simply turn from them when they seem near by, moving out into the light, any light you can find,—and the darkness will flee away. Do you understand, my daughter? All sin, but only when they deliberately choose to seek and stay in the dark; all sin, just as we all walk in the dark sometimes, but it is useless to fight in the dark except to get out of it; therefore turn at once toward the light so that you may see what you can see, the better the light the more clearly you will see;—this is a fact in nature both as to physical and spiritual sight, a great secret in nature, hid from many ‘who love darkness.’ Go out into the sunlight whenever you can, so warm and beautiful, and the darkness of sin will flee away,—you will see truth clearer and brighter than ever before.”

“Father, I begin to see a little already,” and she kissed him.

Her natural tendencies were to look upwards and enjoy things. The Professor’s little sermon on Light as Righteousness appealed to her strongly as the truth; and what he had hoped for, namely, that sin, as such, should be put in the dark background so that her mind would not dwell upon it at all, was for once an actual experience in her life. This practical experience was what she most needed then and there. Her father had helped her to look upwards towards the Light of the World, and when she did, she saw no sin nor darkness whatsoever. This was indeed a secret worth knowing to live by. It not only gave her a chance for practical application in her class which she immediately decided to put in practice, but it generated a train of thought which she applied many times in later experience. On the very next Sunday she took her own way to bring the matter home to her class, several members of which would have been much improved by a judicious use of soap and water. She touched upon this somewhat delicate subject by simply suggesting that if any one wished to know what sin was, he could easily find out by looking at his dirty hands in the bright sunshine,—the sin spots could then be easily seen. “Your inside is just like your outside,” said she, “both want watching and washing in a good light to find those dirty sin spots, and get rid of them.” The class understood her perfectly; the boys especially, the girls, too, each after his own kind.

As to the train of thought generated within herself, that also took form, and in a way to strengthen her ideals of what good thoughts should be. She retired to bed that blessed night after her father had told her about the Light of the World and of always looking upwards, with no fear of sin whatever. It is something to be turned from, like many other kinds of dirt in nature, only one had to look upwards in order to avoid it because it soiled the mind as well as the body. There was a lovely picture of the Christ Child in the arms of His Mother, hanging over her writing-desk in her room. As she looked upwards, it appeared bathed in sunlight, and the Baby was so very fresh and clean.

And when the morning rays came into her bedroom, Adele whispered to herself, “Oh, there’s the dawn! the light is coming! The roseate first, and then the golden rays! How beautiful! The Angels of Light! coming to drive away darkness—and sin.” She cherished this symbolism her father had given her, throughout her whole life; and from that day sunrise meant much more to Adele than to many who had none to tell them how the beauties and mysteries of nature are really blended together as one. All may see the facts and be helped, if they will only look upwards towards the Light of the World.

It was not surprising, therefore, at the present period of her career, when the advent of spring approached, that Adele enjoyed the prospect exceedingly. Incidentally she had heard of several who were going abroad that season, among them the Doctor and Paul. “Oh, how I wish I were going! The very thought is exhilarating; what would the realization be! If——”

She went to the window and looked upwards. “What a lovely day!—I think I will take a stroll in the park,” and she picked up a little book which the Doctor had loaned her. “I’ll take this with me and read it; it’s something about Oriental theophanies, whatever that may be. I’ll just read it and imagine I’m out in the Orient. If one cannot go, the next best thing is to imagine one is there,—with a book.”

She was dressing to go out when her thoughts took another flight. “People talk about waiting for things to turn up, they always say circumstances don’t suit just now, and then collapse. Of course they collapse,—I should if always waiting—I am sure I should. I couldn’t stand it. Why not hurry up the circumstances? Mother often makes the circumstances, and then people fall in; I’ve seen her do it fifty times. Oh, how I wish I could go abroad!”—then taking her book she set out for a stroll.

Adele in the park, how different from the Doctor, the circumstances altogether different. Not at night and alone, but when the sunlight gave brilliancy and she was liable at any moment to meet some one she knew.

There was, however, a quiet nook where she hoped to be able to read undisturbed, an inconspicuous seat partially surrounded by a cultivated thicket of shrubbery. This seemed to suit her present mood, and she was soon engrossed in the little book so full of the Oriental way of looking at things, figures of speech in which the forces of nature were personified, and the most ordinary facts described in language which might lead plain people to imagine supernatural operations in nature. It was not so easy as she imagined, however, to keep her mind in focus. Of course she had to nod to several of the girls as they passed by, and with one eye still following them she observed how the birds were ruining a newly planted flower bed, nipping off the young shoots and gobbling up the seed which should be left to sprout later. Of course that had to be stopped,—she must frighten off the birds to save the plants. Returning to her book, she noticed some manuscript leaves inserted. They were in the Doctor’s handwriting and so palpably intended to be read with the text in order to elucidate further the author’s ideas, that Adele had no hesitation whatever in reading them, and became absorbed at once. They seemed like what her father had told her, only in another form. The Doctor had used Western phraseology to convey Oriental imagery and ideas,—to show how Oriental imagery may still be forcible to Western sense,—how the truth was in all, to be perceived by each after his own fashion. Of course the Doctor’s effort was crude, and well showed how such ideas may lose force when separated from the civilization which had originally called them forth; but of this Adele had no realizing sense. They spoke to her so that she could understand. She did not criticise, but sought the truth no matter how crude the effort,—thereby manifesting the prime element essential in all true criticism, namely, sympathy with the author. What she read was entitled:

The Theophany of Spring.

In the Domain of Nature, during early Spring, one sees the Spirit of New Life as an avatar, a coming of the Deity, or manifestation of the Mind in Nature, down to earth—to produce a resurrection of thought, being, joy, from an apparent death and past.

To rescue mankind from destruction, the Spirit form is clothed with Hope as with a garment, hope in tangible manifestation, an admirable exhibition of an abstract idea, a law in nature, in concrete fulfilment,—obedience.

Clothed in delicate, lace-like foliage and young blossoms, the verdant coloring of many shades, the Presence of the Spirit is manifest. As movement tells of the wind, so do the youthful forms tell of refinement, modesty, purity. How exquisite the affinity, the relationship to the azure blue, the heavens above from which new life must come with light, warmth, and nourishment; and with the fleecy clouds floating in the vast expanse, white, the blending of all colors; marking the heavenly route by which the Spirit had passed in coming down to Mother Earth. Sparkling gems, the gift from April showers, decked her hopeful garments; not after man’s arrangement; there was a method in the natural spirit-art which embodied both the good and the true with the beautiful. Wherever the brilliant points could accentuate a graceful fold, or enlighten the mind, or give nourishment, produce good results in any way, as moisture gives life and sustentation, there were the sparkling gems upon the Theophany of New Life.

As one gazes with holy admiration at this theophany of truth in renewed manifestation, and watches the changing effects, the action of the Spirit of New Life becomes apparent; the adaptation of the new growth to progress becomes a living experience, the facts become vital in significance to help others to live beautifully and truly. The pure white light from the azure sky, the composite of all colors, differentiates itself when touching the new growth and youthful forms. Topaz flowers, and garlands of ruby blossoms, rich golden stamens set in sapphire corollas, the royal purple, bloomed upon the garments of Hope, turquoise opaque tints and alexandrite changing hues took proper place as life took time.

The New Life advances, treading the way all plants and men should follow—must follow. The always true, always good, always beautiful, in motion or effect. And at times the theophany is seen in effects too dazzling for mortal eye to gaze upon with sight in nakedness—the naked eye cannot see and live. From behind the cumuli of clouds such radiant outbursts of effulgent splendor that a transfiguration of the Presence itself seems imminent, a veritable foresight of what the pure in heart above can see and live,—a glimpse of what is implied by the immanence of the Creator of all life. It is then that scintillations of brilliancy shine forth from every gem, from every good thought, from every beautiful action, responsive to Him who created them. It is then that the truth is visible to the naked eye so that man can see upon the earth that for which he prays, “as it is in heaven.” It is then that the Spirit of New Life becomes enveloped as with a halo around her own presence, and vision is blinded by the increasing effulgence of the truthful atmospheric effects.

Man closes his eyes, his vision is too weak, too limited in power and scope, to behold that which is actually before his eyesight. And while his sight is sealed by the very glory of the fact itself, and his mental vision strives to retain permanently that which he has been permitted to witness, then the Spirit speaks, speaks into the heart-life of those who have sought by striving to learn how to hear as well as to see. It is then when the eye is closed, yet all in the presence of New Life, that the avatar, theophany, renaissance, resurrection of truth in springtime, speaks the pure word of the Mind of Nature, the Creator Father,—the still small voice is heard.

Softly as a murmur it comes from all directions. To him whose life work is in one field it is a voice profound and comprehensive in nature, and he calls it the music of the spheres. To another, it seems as tender, loving and true as parental affection in its holiest moments, and this one takes his children into the fields and wood to see and hear. It pervades all life, this Voice of Thought, Being, Joy, in the resurrection of New Life. It is heard in the bird-notes from every bush as the little songsters sing to their mates, rejoicing in renewed virility and hope of cozy nests amid the youthful foliage; it is the voice of renewed youth speaking unto itself, yet not itself, but through itself into those whom it had created, preserved, saved,—a simple, child-like voice, asking questions.

Man pauses to listen. What are the questions asked in the early childhood of springtime?

Oh, how pure, sincere! Transparent, clear! How loving the motive and desire which prompts the children of men when close to nature to look up wistfully for an answer.

“Whence comes this Spirit of New Life?”

And lo! the inner voice:

“All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made.”

And lo! again the voice:

“In Him was Life, and the Life was the Light of Men.”

And lo! yet again the voice—for the third time,—the voice of a man to his brother man:

“I am the Resurrection and the Life. Come unto Me.”

Adele heard this inner voice,—the Trinity in Nature operative, speaking to her, to her personally.

She closed the book, pressing it against her heart, and wended her way homeward, absorbed in thought, verily as one in the world, yet now above it, spiritually.

Her father had spoken to her of the Light of the World, as Intelligence and Righteousness. He who is the Light of the World had said to her, spiritually:

“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

She had sought the sunshine, and heard the Voice;—the Voice of the Trinity in the springtime of her youth.

Not until next morning did the practical application of what Adele had heard take hold upon her as something demanding prompt attention. The concept once accepted, at once acted like a seed-word, producing new life, and the beautiful blossoms of a new intelligence appeared. She herself became a part of this springtime resurrection. Being what she was, youthful, intelligent, sincere, it of course took form, naturally, in connection with that phase of life and activity which was uppermost in her own environment at the time,—but the motive now much more heartfelt and spiritual.

She had longed to go abroad, and often said so, merely, however, for the hope of enjoyment, now the desire was to see and learn more of humanity at large for a given purpose; and especially that region, the Orient, from which such thoughts, so practical yet spiritual, had originally come. She wanted a broader knowledge of the world and of the great religions; of the Light of the World as a universal spiritual as well as physical experience, and this, simply in order to live better, truer, and to help others.

“I must go!—really must,” she whispered, “even if I have to make the circumstances.”

VII OFF TO ASIA

IT was at the Club, only a few days later, where the Doctor met Professor Cultus. The usual preliminaries of greeting had hardly passed from hearing before the Professor seemed unusually anxious to know certain details about the Far East, details about modes of travel and such things,—in fact, asked so many questions quite unlike his usual mode of conversation, that the Doctor pricked up his ears with delight, evidently having some suspicions, and finally asked the direct question: “Why don’t you go and see for yourself?”

Professor Cultus laughed, and then frankly acknowledged the situation: “Mrs. Cultus and Adele are so bent on seeing the Orient before it becomes civilized, as they evidently expect, that I have no peace. Mrs. Cultus is reading ‘O. K.’ between the lines of ‘The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney,’ as if one ought to throw some light upon the other. She says she wants to make the acquaintance of some of those Khidmatgars and Maharajas while they yet stand upon their native heath. I’ve told her they don’t wear kilts like MacGregor, but ’twas no use. She immediately wished to know what they did wear. I suppose I’m in for it. They’ve been talking the matter over at intervals all winter, but now! now! O now! we have it from thin soup to thick coffee.”

“Better give in,” said the Doctor, laughing heartily.

“Well, just between us, I have;—but I haven’t told them so, not as yet. I rather take to the notion myself since I can see my way to get off, but I don’t quite understand the modus operandi—how one man can manage civilized women in a land where women don’t generally count for much. Did you say the Taj could now be seen without an elephant ride? That’s the sort of thing I must know beforehand; two civilized women on one wild beast might demoralize the beast.”

The bare possibility of having the Cultus party in the East at the same time with themselves, sent Paul to call upon Adele as quickly as he could pick up his hat and rush out. These two young members put their heads together and practically settled all details, both possible and impossible, before the older members of the party could well realize what they were talking about. Youth forever! American style! Action! Action! Action! with occasional application of the brake.

Mrs. Cultus was greatly in favor of having four in their own party.

“Une partie carree is always so much more workable when travelling,” she said, “and besides, Adele ought to have some one nearer her own age. I don’t intend to follow Adele into every dirty native haunt she may take a notion to visit. Now if we can only find some one of the modern Investigating-Civil Club, or of the Literary-Reformation Reportorial Society, we shall be in clover all through the tour; we can report progress in print whenever we wish, and have a book ready as soon as we return.”

“But, Mother, you are too grasping,” exclaimed Adele, “only a literary corps can assimilate the whole thing.”

“No! Not quite!” said Mrs. Cultus. “We need only report our own progress, not the rotation-progress-of-the-earth. Now that I come to think of it, perhaps I’d better do the reporting myself. The society column generally puts in what I send them,—and then I’m sure of what is said. Oh! I have an idea! It’s a companion for you, Adele, that troubles me! Now I come to think of it, whom would you like?” But before any one could reply, Mrs. Cultus continued:

“Why, Miss Winchester, of course! Now if she can be persuaded,—Adele, you know how to coax her,—that will be the very thing.” Professor Cultus made no objection, and the delighted Adele took it up as if the persuasion of Miss Winchester were a foregone conclusion.

Adele and Paul found Miss Winchester in her own study, her writing-table littered with odds and ends, apparently, really notes such as literary workers are apt to jot down when a passing thought or phrase seems worth keeping; loose slips of paper and packages held by gum bands, pieces pinched at the ends with mysterious folds, also things tucked away under blotters where she couldn’t find them, and so forth. The Persuasion Committee, Adele Chairman, entered,—a gale of wind among the papers. Action first and the ideas picked up afterwards. Rapturous greeting between the girl chums;—then Adele exclaimed, “Oh! Frank! If you love me do consent to come with us.”

“Caramels or Gibraltars? Which is it this time?” laughed Miss Winchester.

“Please put on your bonnet and come,” gushed Paul, manly mindful of the importance of such things.

“O Frank! We’re just wild to have you.”

“Well, please become sane again, take a seat;—no, not on that box, it’s precious!”

Adele dashed her hat and gloves on the writing-table, utterly regardless of pens, ink, papers or blotters. “Now, my dear, no nonsense,—do say yes.”

“My dear Adele, I do love you very much, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Adele produced a printed list of routes for travellers. “There!” Miss Winchester noticed an illustration of the Sphynx on the cover. “I never made her acquaintance,” said she, and a comical expression played over her features as she tried to divine what Adele expected the Sphynx to tell.

Adele took it up at once. “You never met the Sphynx! Why, that’s just it! Now’s our chance,—don’t you see?” And the Committee started in, one hundred and twenty words to the minute, to explain matters.

Miss Winchester, somewhat confused by the rapidity of Adele’s jumps from place to place in mental travelling, but as responsively elastic as either of the others, took several turns in her office-chair while the others were chatting; but when they landed her among the Himalaya mountains as part of the journey, she gasped for utterance:

“Bless me! You take my breath away.”

“Never mind! Catch it again. Oh, do please! Please do! and come along!”

“But you must give me time to think,” and Miss Winchester began cogitating how she would turn an apparent impossibility into an assured fact.

“Oh, don’t think too much,” exclaimed Adele, when the result of thinking looked precarious. “Just do it,—why, don’t you see? The opportunity of our lives! We shall learn so much.”

Now it so happened, the circumstances being favorable, that Adele’s last appeal touched upon a matter in Miss Winchester’s past experience, and excited a far more potent incentive to join the party than any amount of contagious enthusiasm could ever have accomplished.

Miss Winchester had not long before published a successful novel based upon results of travel, including character sketches, the result of careful observation amid episodes of ordinary life. She had given it the whimsical title of “Upside Down.” Now what could possibly be more opportune than to follow this with others,—say on “Downside Up,” or, better still, “Outside and Inside”? And where could more be found of circumstantial interest than in the Orient? Who knows!—it might lead to still another, “Turned Inside Out,” for the East undoubtedly had many examples of that sort of thing. Being already a member of the literary craft, the opportunity was altogether too good to be lost, every nerve must be strained to reach the other side. It goes without saying that the Chairman of the Persuasion Committee was caught dancing an impromptu tarantelle when Miss Winchester finally told them it might, possibly might, be arranged.

“Oh, then it’s settled positively,” exclaimed Adele; “for if you hesitate you’re lost.”

Paul thought Adele a little witch as she danced with glee, all the time encouraging her friend. He remembered how Adele had bewitched himself also not long before, when she was in quite another mood. Paul laughed outright, but could not keep his eyes from noticing her every movement.

As to Miss Winchester, she took hold of the problem with a vim characteristic of some of the characters of her own creation; she tackled at once the ubiquitous problem known to all men on both sides of the globe as, “How to make both ends meet,” and of course solved it satisfactorily. Some few of the craft-literary, and in some degree all women of whatever persuasion, usually do. So Adele was right,—that settled it. Miss Winchester finally saw her way clear, and joined their party.

It would have been difficult to find a more congenial and vivacious group than Professor and Mrs. Cultus, Miss Winchester and Adele, with their friends the Doctor and Paul, as they met in the salon of the steamer on the eve of departure. Henri Semple, who looked forward to meeting them later on the other side, led the party of chosen friends who came to see them off, and while trying to aid the Doctor and Paul with their hand-baggage, kept dodging Mr. Hammond, one of those antipathetic, ghostly individuals who throw cold water upon such occasions. Mrs. Maxwell sent her butler with an exquisite kedge anchor in rose-buds for Adele, “in case you have no wireless telegraph when wrecked, my dear.”

Amid friends, and flowers sent in kind remembrance, with many kind messages “bon voyage,” there was, nevertheless, just a touch of regret when some one asked Adele how she liked leaving America. She had thus far thought of it as leaving home. Now home was “America” in reference to where she was going,—her first sensation of the broadening effects of travel.

A few moments later all were on deck in gay spirits, Miss Winchester striving to avoid an impolite kodak-fiend in search of celebrities, who was taking snap-shots from the bridge; but she only succeeded in getting herself into a most unconventional attitude, almost doubled up with laughter, strongly suggestive in a finished picture that some one had the mal de mer already. “One ought never to judge by appearances,” remarked the Doctor, as he attempted to shield Miss Winchester from the kodak.

The bell sounded, only passengers were permitted to remain longer on board. The Doctor was saying “I trust we meet again” to one of his trunks, when Semple hurried down the gang-plank waving back “au revoir”; a gamin on the dock instantly echoed back what sounded like “moo-swore, take moo-swore.” Adele waved her handkerchief to Semple, and a Frenchman near by took off his hat, smiling as if the salute were intended for him.

The steamer swung out from the wharf and glided into midstream; amid cheers, and adieus waved in many directions, and kisses thrown to loved ones left behind. America and home, now one and the same, began to recede. They were actually on their way to the Far East.