Chapter LXVIII

At last, one day,
There came a letter from our bureau’s head,
With it, another, sent him, so he wrote,
“By some enthusiast, a character—
A woman, and a woman too of mind;
And yet, withal, who had been strangely led,
Through doubtful ways, he thought, toward doubtful ends,
Till doubts had wrought reaction,—as when clouds
That course on clouds, at last, bring lightnings forth
That clear them off. And now her vision, clear’d,
Had found within her soul a wish to work,—
In new ways truly for a cause like ours,—
For us and with us. But I held her note,
She dwelt near by me: could I visit her?
And give my judgment then?”