"I might have guessed it from the alacrity with which you took up
Davy's and mine. You must be very happy to have the power to make
things straight and sunny and wholesome; to breathe your strength
into helplessness such as mine. I thank you, and I envy you. Good-
night."

Lyddy turned on her heel without a word; her mind was beyond and
above words. The sky seemed to have descended upon, enveloped her,
caught her up into its heaven, as she rose into unaccustomed heights
of feeling, like Elijah in his chariot of fire. She very happy! She
with power--power to make things straight and sunny and wholesome!
She able to breathe strength into helplessness, even a consecrated,
God-smitten helplessness like his! She not only to be thanked, but
envied!

Her house seemed strange to her that night. She went to bed in the
dark, dreading even the light of a candle; and before she turned down
her counterpane she flung herself on her knees, and poured out her
soul in a prayer that had been growing, waiting, and waited for,
perhaps, for years:

"O Lord, I thank Thee for health and strength and life. I never
could do it before, but I thank Thee to-night for life on any terms.
I thank Thee for this home; for the chance of helping another human
creature, stricken like myself; for the privilege of ministering to a
motherless child. Make me to long only for the beauty of holiness,
and to be satisfied if I attain to it. Wash my soul pure and clean,
and let that be the only mirror in which I see my face. I have tried
to be useful. Forgive me if it always seemed so hard and dreary a
life. Forgive me if I am too happy because for one short day I have