“I know that his Living Spirit touches your thought and mine, this moment, and moves them to each other.  As you and I are alive, He is alive beside us and between us.  Your pain is his pain for you.  You feel it just where you are joined to Him; in the quick of your soul.  If it were not for that, you would be dead; you could not feel at all.”

Was this the Desire Ledwith of the old time, with deep thoughts but half understood, and shrinking always from any recognizing word?  She shrunk now, just as much, from any needless expression of herself; from any parade or talking over of sacred perception and experience; but the real life was all the stronger in her; all the surer to use her when its hour came.  She had escaped out of all shams and contradictions.  Unconsent to the divine impulse comes of incongruity.  There was no incongruity now, to shame or to deter; no separate or double consciousness to stand apart in her soul, rebuked or repugnant.  She gave herself quietly, simply, freely, to God’s thought for this other child of his; the Thought that she knew was touching and stirring her own.

“I shall send somebody to you who can tell you more than I can, Mary,” she said, presently.  “You will find there is heart and help in the world that can only be God’s own.  Believe in that, and you will come to believe in Him.  You have seen only the wrong, bad side, I am afraid.  The under side; the side turned down toward”—­

“Hell-fire,” said Mary Moxall, filling Desire’s hesitation with an utterance of hard, unrecking distinctness.

But Desire Ledwith knew that the hard unreckingness was only the reflex of a tenderness quick, not dead, which the Lord would not let go of to perish.

Sylvie and Hazel came in below, and she left Mary Moxall and went down to them.  The three took leave, for it was after five o’clock.

When they got out from the street-car at Borden Square, Desire left them, to go round by Savin Street, and see Mr. Vireo.  Hazel went home; Mrs. Ripwinkley expected her to-night; Miss Craydocke and some of the Beehive people were to come to tea.  Sylvie hastened on to Greenley Street, anxious to return to her mother.  She had rarely left her, lately, so long as this.

How would it be when they had heard from Mr. Thayne what she felt sure they must hear,—­when they had to leave Greenley Street and go into that cheap little lodging-room, and she had to stay away from her mother all day long?

She remembered the time when she had thought it would be nice to have a “few things;” nice to earn her own living; to be one of the “Other Girls.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHOSEN:  AND CALLED.

Desire Ledwith found nobody at home at Mr. Vireo’s.  The maid-servant said that she could not tell when they would return.  Mrs. Vireo was at her mother’s, and she believed they would not come back to tea.