The flesh,--to him whose truth can rend away
From such lost souls their moral night's black pall,--
Oh, unto him what words can hearts recall
Which their deep gratitude finds fit to say?
No words but these,--and these to him are best:--
That, henceforth, like a quenchless vestal flame,
His words of truth shall burn on Truth's pure shrine;
His memory be truth worshipped and confessed;
Our gratitude and love, the priestess line,
Who serve before Truth's altar, in his name._




Mercy Philbrick's Choice.




Chapter I.



It was late in the afternoon of a November day. The sky had worn all day
that pale leaden gray color, which is depressing even to the least
sensitive of souls. Now, at sunset, a dull red tint was slowly stealing
over the west; but the gray cloud was too thick for the sun to pierce, and
the struggle of the crimson color with the unyielding sky only made the
heavens look more stern and pitiless than before.