"Yes, yes, Beulah,"
"'Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.'"
"Let us obey the poet's injunction, and realize the closing lines:"
"'And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.'"
Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of impatience in her tone:
"Why try to escape it all, Clara? If those 'grand old masters,' those 'bards sublime,' who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's endless toil and endeavor,' speak to you through my loved books, why should you 'long for rest'?"
"An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the eagle," answered Clara meekly.
"One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties. Strong swimmers are such from fierce buffetings with hungry waves. Come out of your warm nest of inertia! Strengthen your wings by battling with storm and wind!" Her brow bent as she spoke.
"Beulah, what sustains you would starve me."
"Something has come over you, Clara."