in York Cathedral, an old window called the Five Sisters.'


'That's a melancholy tale,' said the merry-faced gentleman, emptying his
glass.

'It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows,' returned
the other, courteously, but in a grave and sad tone of voice.

'There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if
we choose to contemplate them,' said the gentleman with the merry face.
'The youngest sister in your tale was always light-hearted.'

'And died early,' said the other, gently.

'She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy,' said
the first speaker, with much feeling. 'Do you think the sisters who
loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her life had been one
of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a
heavy loss, it would be--with me--the reflection, that those I mourned,
by being innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared
themselves for a purer and happier world. The sun does not shine upon
this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.'

'I believe you are right,' said the gentleman who had told the story.

'Believe!' retorted the other, 'can anybody doubt it? Take any subject
of sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it is associated.
The recollection of past pleasure may become pain--'