Upstairs in her own room Evadne paced the floor with tightly clenched hands.  “Oh!” she cried, “what shall I do?  I hate him!  I hate him!  How dare he!  He ought to be glad to go down on his knees to serve her, she is so sweet, so dear!  Oh, I cannot bear it!  That she should be compelled to endure such servitude, and I can do nothing to help, nothing! nothing!” She threw herself across the bed and burst into a passion of tears.  Was this the silent girl whom Isabelle had voted tiresome and slow?

A little later than usual she heard the low knock which always preceded the visit which she looked forward to as the sweetest part of the day.  Could it be possible she would come to-night?  Was no thought of self ever permitted to enter that brave, suffering heart?

She rose and opened the door.  The dear face was paler than usual but there was no shadow upon the smooth brow.  Marthe Everidge had crossed the tempest-tossed ocean of human passion into the sun-kissed calm of Christ’s perfect peace.

Evadne threw her arms around her neck and laid her storm-swept face upon her shoulder.  “Forgive me!” she cried, “I heard it all.  I could not help it.  I think my heart is breaking.  Do not be angry, you see I love you so!  How can I bear to have you subjected to this?  You are so tender, so true.  There is such a charm about you!  You are so beautifully unselfish!  Oh, my dear, my dear, how can you, do you bear it?”

Mrs. Everidge lifted her face tenderly and kissed the quivering lips.  “It is ‘not I but Christ,’ dear child.  That makes it possible.”  Then she drew her over to the lounge and began to undress her as if she had been a baby.  “My dear little sister.  You are utterly exhausted.  You are not strong enough to suffer so.”

“Oh, will you let me be your sister and help you bear your burdens?” cried Evadne, unconscious that all the time the skilful hands were keeping up their sweet ministry and that her burden was being lifted for her by the one who had the greater burden to bear.

When she was comfortably settled for the night Mrs. Everidge drew her low chair up beside the bed.  Evadne caught her hand in hers and kissed it reverently.  “I wish I could make you understand how I honor you!” she said.

“You must not do it, dear!” said Aunt Marthe quickly.  “Honor the King.”

After a pause she began to speak slowly and her voice was sweet and low.  “When, the first night you came, you asked me if I knew Jesus Christ, I told you he was my life.  That explains it all.  It is very sweet of you to say the kind things that you have about me but they are not true.  In and of herself, Marthe Everidge is nothing.  The moment she tries to live her own life she utterly fails.  If there is anything good about her life, it is only as she lets Christ live it for her.”

“I do not understand,” said Evadne with a puzzled look.  “How is it possible for any one else to live our lives for us?”