There was something very exhilarating about the movement, the freshness of the night, and the wild, sweet song of the wind as it sang amongst the rigging.

Augusta turned her face toward it, and, being alone, stretched out her arms as though to catch it.

The whole scene awoke some answering greatness in her heart; something that slumbers in the bosom of the higher race of human beings, and only stirs--and then but faintly--when the passions move them, or when nature communes with her nobler children.

She felt that at that moment she could write as she had never written yet.

All sorts of beautiful ideas, all sorts of aspirations after that noble calm, and purity of thought and life for which we pray and long, but are not allowed to reach, came flowing into her heart.