THE GLEN. 91 



Yes, sneer laugh blaspheme that holy love, poor 

 miserable dog of the world's whipping, who have never 

 felt the blessedness of pure, warm, woman love, but know 

 that for sixty years of Sabbaths while that man worship- 

 ped God at that same altar, he never forgot that night, 

 nor failed to thank God for that tempest. 



And when they carried him into the church again, and 

 laid him down prone at the altar foot, whereby he knelt 

 with the maiden he loved so long ago, if his old bones 

 revived not at the blessed touch, if his old heart thrilled 

 not with the remembered love, if his old cheek grew not 

 warm with the balmy breath, if his old eyes smiled not 

 with the old, old love, if he lay there still, calm, dead, I 

 tell you there is an altar, a church, a land, where they 

 two kneel together, where their eyes will be radiant with 

 love, where their lips will be eloquent with rapturous 

 song ! Again, and yet again, I thank God for the immor- 

 tality of love. 



We reached home about two o'clock, and sat on the 

 piazza all the afternoon, reading and talking. Before the 

 sun went down we walked up the glen, and sat by the 

 waterfall, where the stream dashes down some fifty feet of 

 rock. Often in the evening gloom that cascade assumes 

 the appearance of a female form, robed in white, sitting 

 on the rock. The western sun shines in on the stream, 

 and you can see the beauty of the sunset from any seat 

 on the rocks above or below the cascade. 



Abraham Stewart's son rode over to see us, and joined 

 us in the glen. He told us all about his father's death. 



The glen on such a Sunday afternoon is a place of 

 worship. There are stones enough for sermons, but stones 

 preach no sermons when waterfalls are nigh. Cliffs, prec- 

 ipices, mountains, alike stand silent when the water has 



