reasoners, it is not in this world that every duty is to find its special meed; yet by that same mystical law which makes Science of Sorrow, rewards are but often the normal effect of duties sublimely fulfilled. Out of your pride and your onecherished object has there grown happiness? Has the success which was not denied you achieved the link with posterity that your hand, if not fettered, would long since have forged? Grant that Heaven says, 'Stubborn child, yield at last to the warnings that come from my love! From a son so favored and strong I exact the most difficult offering! Thou hast sacrificed much, but for ends not prescribed in my law; sacrifice now to me the thing thou most clingest to—Pride. I make the pang I demand purposely bitter. I twine round the offering I ask the fibers that bleed in relaxing. What to other men would be no duty is duty to thee, because it entails a triumphant self-conquest, and pays to Humanity the arrears of just dues long neglected.' Grant the hard sacrifice made; I must think Heaven has ends for your joy even here, when it asks you to part with the cause of your sorrows; I must think that your evening of life may have sunshine denied to its noon. But with God are no bargains. A virtue, the more arduous because it must trample down what your life has exalted as virtue, is before you—distasteful, austere, repellant. The most inviting arguments in its favor are that it proffers no bribes; men would acquit you in rejecting it; judged by our world's ordinary rule, men would be right in acquitting you. But if, on reflection, you say in your heart of hearts, 'This is a virtue,' you will follow its noiseless path up to the smile of God!"
The Preacher ceased.
Darrell breathed a long sigh, rose slowly, took George's hand, pressed it warmly in both his own, and turned quickly and silently away. He paused in the deep recess, where the gleam of the wintry sun shot through the small casement, aslant and pale, on the massive wall. Opening the lattice, he looked forth on the old hereditary trees—on the Gothic church-tower—on the dark evergreens that belted his father's tomb. Again he sighed, but this time the sigh had a haughty sound in its abrupt impatience; and George felt that words written must remain to strengthen and confirm the effect of words spoken. He had at least obeyed his uncle's wise injunction—he had prepared Darrell's mind to weigh the contents of a letter, which, given in the first instance, would perhaps have rendered Darrell's resolution not less stubborn, by increasing the pain to himself which the resolution already inflicted.
