source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed,—a star in an else starless firmament,—which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracked as a guide, or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded, when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?
She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening: Heaven and Evening gazed back on her. She bent down, searching bank, hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded by oracles: she heard,—she was impressed; but she could not understand. Above her head she raised her hands joined together.
"Guidance—help—comfort—come!" was her cry.
There was no voice, nor any that answered.
She waited, kneeling, stedfastly looking up. Yonder sky was sealed: the solemn stars shone alien and remote.
At last, one over-stretched chord of her agony slacked: she thought Something above relented: she felt as if Something far round drew nigher: she heard as if Silence spoke. There was no language, no word, only a tone.
Again—a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a storm whispering, made twilight undulate.
