supposed to look upon human griefs, and as he looked on her various
expressions chased one another across that eloquent face. Sweet and
tender memories and regrets were not wanting among them. After a long
pause he spoke in a tone soft and gentle as a woman's, and at first in
a voice so faltering that Susan, though her face was hidden, felt
there was no common sympathy there, and silently put out her hand
toward it.

He murmured consolation. He said many gentle, soothing things. He told
her that it was very sad the immense ocean should roll between two
loving hearts, "but," said he, "there are barriers more impassable
than the sea. Better so than that he should be here and jealousy,
mistrust, caprice, or even temper come between you. I hope he will
come back; I think he will come back."

She blessed him for saying so. She was learning to believe everything
this man uttered.

From consolation he passed to advice.

"You must do the exact opposite of what you have been doing."

"Must I?"

"You must visit those poor people; ay, more than ever you did; hear
patiently their griefs; do not expect much in return, neither sympathy
nor a great deal of gratitude; vulgar sorrow is selfish. Do it for
God's sake and your own single-heartedly. Go to the school, return to
your flowers, and never shun innocent society, however dull. Milk and
water is a poor thing, but it is a diluent, and all we can do just now