The words of the prayer beside the grave,—­most tenderly framed by the good old minister, for the ear he knew they would reach—­came in soft and clear upon the pleasant air.

“And we know, Lord, as we lay these friends away, one after another, that we give them into Thy hands,—­into Thy heart; that we give into Thy heart, also, all our love and our sorrow, and our penitence for whatever more we might have been or done toward them; that through Thee, our thought of them can reach them forever.  We pray Thee to forgive us, as we know we do forgive each other; to keep alive and true in us the love by which we hold each other; and finally to bring us face to face in Thy glory, which is Thy loving presence among us all.  We ask Thee to do this, by the pity and grace that are in Thy Christ, our Saviour.”

After that, they were driven straight in, over the long Avenue, to the city, and to the quiet house in Pilgrim Street.

Ray herself, only, led Marion to the little room up-stairs which had been made ready for her; Ray brought her up some tea, and made her drink it; she saw her in bed for the night, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

ERRANDS OF HOPE.

“It is a very small world, after all.”

Mr. Dickens, who touched the springs of the whole world’s life, and moved all its hearts with tears and laughter, said so; and we find it out, each in our own story, or in any story that we know of or try to tell.  How things come round and join each other again,—­how this that we do, brings us face to face with that which we have done, and with its work and consequence; how people find each other after years and years, and find that they have not been very far apart after all; how the old combinations return, and almost repeat themselves, when we had thought that they were done with.

“As the doves fly to their windows,” where the crumbs are waiting for them, we find ourselves borne by we know not what instinct of events,—­yet we do know; for it is just the purpose of God, as all instinct is,—­toward these conjunctions and recurrences.  We can see at the end of weeks, or months, or years, how in some Hand the lines must have all been gathered, and made to lead and draw to the coincidence.  We call it fate, sometimes; stopping short, either blindly inapprehensive of the larger and surer blessedness, or too shyly reverent of what we believe to say it easily out.  Yet when we read it in a written story, we call it the contrivance of the writer,—­the trick of the trade.  Dearly beloved, the writer only catches, in such poor fashion as he may, the trick of the Finger, whose scripture is upon the stars.

Marion Kent is received into the Ingraham home.  Hilary Vireo and Luclarion Grapp preach the gospel to her.

“Christ died.”

The minister uttered his evangel of mercy in those two eternal words.