“'But wouldst thou be willing to be almost annihilated, were it by that only you might become a lamp to the pilgrim's feet?'
“I looked into my heart, and think I spoke truthfully, when I answered that I would.
“'Then thou art accepted,' the angel said. 'It shall not be literal annihilation, although akin to it, for all your earthly desires must be swept away; all ambition, fame, learning, friends, must be sacrificed upon this altar. The light you will bear is fed alone from heavenly sources. Think again, child, if all these things can be as naught.'
“I searched my soul once more. One answer, one word broke from my lips,—'Amen.'
“'T is well,' the angel visitant said; 'thy being shall be turned to light.'
“I awoke. The morning sun shone in my windows, and laid in golden bars upon my bed. I thought long of the vision of the night, and then sat down to pen it to you. To me it is significant. Write and tell me if it seems but a dream to you. I should like to be permitted to glorify my name, and be the 'Dawn' of light to some of earth's weary pilgrims.”
CHAPTER XX.
In a pleasant room in Frankfort, on a slight eminence which overlooked the river Maine, sat a young man, of about thirty years, in deep meditation. His face showed traces of recent suffering; his broad, high brow was white as marble, and his hands, though large, were soft and delicate as a woman's. Near by sat a young girl, whose physiogomy showed close relationship to the invalid. She was his sister, and was travelling with him, hoping that change of air and scenery might produce a beneficial effect on his health.