God!' But where Fortune brings no vicissitude; where her wheel runs smooth, dropping wealth or honors as it rolls—where Affliction centers its work within the secret, unrevealing heart—there, even the wisest man may not readily perceive by what means Heaven is admonishing, forcing, or wooing him nearer to itself. I take the case of a man in whom Heaven acknowledges a favored son. I assume his outward life crowned with successes, his mind stored with opulent gifts, his nature endowed with lofty virtues; what an heir to train through the brief school of earth for due place in the ages that roll on forever! But this man has a parasite weed in each bed of a soul rich in flowers; weed and flowers intertwined, stem with stem—their fibers uniting even deep down to the root. Can you not conceive with what untiring vigilant care Heaven will seek to disentangle the flower from the weed?—how (dropping inadequate metaphor) Heaven will select for its warning chastisements that very error which the man has so blent with his virtues that he holds it a virtue itself?—how, gradually, slowly, pertinaciously, it will gather this beautiful nature all to itself—insist on a sacrifice it would ask from no other? To complete the true nature of poor William Losely, Heaven ordained the sacrifice of worldly repute; to complete the true nature of Guy Darrell, God ordains him the sacrifice of Pride!"
Darrell started—half rose; his eye flashed—his cheek paled; but he remained silent.
"I have approached the favor I supplicate," resumed George, drawing a deep breath, as of relief. "Greater favor man can scarcely bestow upon his fellow. I entreat you to believe that I respect, and love, and honor you sufficiently to be for a while so lifted up into your friendship, that I may claim the privilege, without which friendship is but a form—just as no freedom is more obnoxious than intrusion on confidence withheld, so no favor, I repeat, more precious than the confidence which a man of worth vouchsafes to him who invites it with no claim but the loyalty of his motives."
Said Darrell, softened, but with stateliness—"All human lives are as separate circles; they may touch at one point in friendly approach, but even where they touch, each rounds itself from off the other. With this hint I am contented to ask at what point in my circle you would touch?"
Gorge Morley. "I thank you gratefully; I accept your illustration. The point is touched; I need no other." He paused a moment, as if concentrating all his thoughts, and then said, with musing accents—"Yes, I accept your illustration; I will
