The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 21
words, but it was like this, —that one must be
either very young or very ungenerous, if one
could find time to pity one's self.
I have lain for two nights, with my eyes
open all night long. I thought that perhaps
I might see him. I have been praying for a
touch, a sign, only for something to break the
silence into which he has gone. But there is
no answer, none. The light burns blue, and
I see at last that it is morning, and go down
stairs alone, and so the day begins.
Something of Mrs. Browning's has been
keeping a dull mechanical time in my brain
all day.
" God keeps a niche
In Heaven to hold our idols:.... albeit
He brake them to our faces, and denied
That our close kisses should impair their white."
But why must He take them? And why
should He keep them there? Shall we ever
see them framed in their glorious gloom?
Will He let us touch them then? Or must we
stand like a poor worshipper at a Cathedral,
looking up at his pictured saint afar off upon
the other side?
Has everything stopped just here? Our
talks together in the twilight, our planning
and hoping and dreaming together; our