gleam again of the beautiful, glowing, romantic passion that for a
short time had made her days splendid with the dreams that are
sweeter than all realities.

Poor Helen! It was little marvel that she wept as all women weep
when their hearts are broken. It is so easy to break a heart;
sometimes a mere word will do it. But the vanishing of the winged
Love-god from the soul is even more than heart-break,--it is utter
and irretrievable loss,--complete and dominating chaos out of
which no good thing can ever be designed or created. In our days
we do our best to supply the place of a reluctant Eros by the
gilded, grinning Mammon-figure which we try to consider as
superior to any silver-pinioned god that ever descended in his
rainbow car to sing heavenly songs to mortals; but it is an
unlovely substitute,--a hideous idol at best; and grasp its golden
knees and worship it as we will, it gives us little or no comfort
in the hours of strong temptation or trouble. We have made a
mistake--we, in our progressive generation,--we have banished the
old sweetnesses, triumphs and delights of life, and we have got in
exchange steam and electricity. But the heart of the age clamors
on unsatisfied,--none of our "new" ideas content it--nothing
pacifies its restless yearning; it feels--this great heart of
human life--that it is losing more than it gains, hence the
incessant, restless aching of the time, and the perpetual longing
for something Science cannot teach,--something vague, beautiful,
indefinable, yet satisfying to every pulse of the soul; and the
nearest emotion to that divine solace is what we in our higher and
better moments recognize as Love. And Love was lost to Helen
Murray; the choice pearl had fallen in the vast gulf of Might-
have-been, and not all the forces of Nature would ever restore to