The great hills and the peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells.

Sophia and Julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people seldom discuss in the sunshine,--intimations of lost powers, prior existences, immortal life.

Julius was learned in the Oriental view of metempsychosis.

Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the highest inspiration of Western thought.
"It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills," she said; "and they interpreted for Mr.Wordsworth the dream of his own soul." "I know, Sophia.

I lifted the book yesterday: your mark was in it." And he recited in a low, intense voice,-- "'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home:'" "Oh, yes!" answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.
"Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.'" And they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation.
Eternity was behind as before them.