Gradually the picture faded, and so great was his sense of loss that for a time his mind seemed a perfect blank. Then, a fever possessed him to sketch the cottage, the valley, the fair hillside, and the persons he had seen, and with whom he had been in spiritual communion. He worked with an eagerness and joy never before experienced, he delighted in every detail; he touched the fair, dimly seen face lovingly, lingeringly.
Three days later he left the old house; a half regret assailed him as it disappeared from view, for here he first saw the pure spirit whose occult influence was lifting him to a higher and purer life. He went direct to the city named in the marriage certificate; he found a record of it which gave that city as the residence of Amanda Cosgrove. He could find no further trace of her; the time was so distant, and the clew so slight; it was like searching for a drop of water in the sea to endeavor to find one insignificant individual amid the shifting population of a large city.
It would be less than interesting to follow Philip through his frequent and grievous disappointments.
During all the time a change was taking place in all his thoughts and feelings; from the ennui and disgust of the former time and former associates, he had grown into a healthy, hearty happiness in the present; putting the evil of the past wholly behind him, living in the good of each day as each day dawned; trying honestly and joyously to reach upward to a higher standard of thought and work. The presence of the sweet spirit was ever near him, prompting his laggard efforts, renewing his courage, and his faith in himself; chiding if at any time the evil spell of the old ways tempted him. I must do him the justice to say that it seldom occurred, because he had reached this happy knowledge, that so long as truth abides life cannot be wholly worthless, because the very life of hope is in truth. He came to feel a compassion—in the place of the past hatred—for his former associates, whose minds had become diseased; so long as we hate we too are touched with moral leprosy. He saw that none were so degraded but that some germ of good yet remained for future development; for good is the seed of the Infinite, and He will not destroy his own, though it be but in the proportion of one grain to a mountain of sand.
How strange that we should be taught that even the hairs of our heads are numbered—the mere material—and then believe that one pure spiritual ray shall go out in darkness. It may not be that the germ will be developed in this plane, but when the limitations and our own degradation of the flesh shall cease, the seed will be planted and fostered in the Beyond, and the trend of good can be no otherwise than toward perfection; all life must grow toward the light. Filled with such thoughts as these, he worked faithfully and conscientiously.
One lovely afternoon he visited the art gallery; he had not been there for some time, and he went prepared to enjoy the treat; he took with him his favorite book, and sought a cozy corner; for a time he read, then he wandered among the paintings until his eyes were satisfied with beauty; again returning to his corner and his book, enjoying his feast of good things.
It was growing late in the day; he would make one more excursion, then return to his room, feeling that it had been a well-spent afternoon. He walked slowly down the room, looking abstractedly upon the floor; thinking how strange that he had not been able to obtain a single trace of Amanda Cosgrove; the thought struck him coldly—that he saw John Hilyer carry her out as though dead—yet he felt that she still lived. He sighed, for several days he had not felt the sweet, haunting Presence; he missed it as one does a dear, familiar friend; he longed for the soft thrilling vibration.
Preoccupied with thought, he did not observe a lady standing before one of the paintings, and awkwardly stepped upon her dress; he turned to apologize, but speechless, held his hat poised in the air. Meeting a person for the first time, did never the feeling assail you that this one was not a stranger to you, although time or place of meeting you could not recall? So it was with him; his heart leaped in recognition, yet—he could not recall—what? It made his brain dizzy, his heart beat tumultuously, thought was in disorder; the words he uttered seemed to him to have been spoken before, he was merely repeating them; he was as one in a dream, doing things without conscious volition. He went through the apology mechanically, stiffly, though he longed with all his soul to reach out his hands and clasp her in sweet embrace, but he turned coldly away, to be confronted by a picture; a country scene; the sloping hills, the woody heights, the velvet carpet of grass, the waving grain, the cottage half-embowered in trees, a woman with upraised hand, looking, as though to peer into futurity; line for line as he had seen it in his concentration, as he had painted it since; the coloring, the touch seemed identical.
He stooped to read the name: “The Hope of a Lifetime, by Maida Cosgrove.” He uttered an exclamation of astonishment; the lady turned, regarding him strangely; he was intently studying the picture, and she turned again to depart. By what narrow chances do we lose or gain the desire of a lifetime, the fruition of our dearest hope—and humanity says—How sad an accident!
A gentleman passing raised his hat, with the salutation: