The
pressure of sadness may lie upon us for a season; but cannot long
remain; for the pure heart will lift itself into serene
atmospheres."
"But, who is right with himself?" she said. "Whose heart is pure
enough to dwell in these serene atmospheres? Not mine, alas!"
I looked into the suddenly illuminated face as she put these
questions, in surprise at the quick change which had passed over it.
But the tone in which she uttered the closing sentence was touched
with tender sadness.
"Rather let me say," I made answer, "_in the degree_ that we are
right with ourselves. None attain unto perfection here."
"Yet," said the lady, with a sweet calmness of manner that made her
look beautiful, "is it not pleasant to imagine a state of
perfection--or rather a state in which evil is quiescent, and the
heart active with all good and loving impulses? How full of
inspiration is such an ideal of life! But the way by which we must
go, if we would rise into this state, is one of difficulty and
perpetual warfare. The enemies of our peace are numbered by myriads;
and they.
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