the pond; the wind had blown it almost to the middle of it.  Her face was turned toward the water.  One hand was in it.  The bank overhung the pond, and with a single movement more she would probably have been beyond help from Dorothy.  She caught her by the arm, and dragged her from the brink, before ever she looked in her face.  Then to her amazement she saw it was Juliet.  She opened her eyes, and it was as if a lost soul looked out of them upon Dorothy—­a being to whom the world was nothing, so occupied was it with some torment, which alone measured its existence—­far away, although it hung attached to the world by a single hook of brain and nerve.

“Juliet, my darling!” said Dorothy, her voice trembling with the love which only souls that know trouble can feel for the troubled, “come with me.  I will take care of you.”

At the sound of her voice, Juliet shuddered.  Then a better light came into her eyes, and feebly she endeavored to get up.  With Dorothy’s help she succeeded, but stood as if ready to sink again to the earth.  She drew her cloak about her, turned and stared at the water, turned again and stared at Dorothy, at last threw herself into her arms, and sobbed and wailed.  For a few moments Dorothy held her in a close embrace.  Then she sought to lead her to the house, and Juliet yielded at once.  She took her into one of the lower rooms, and got her some water—­it was all she could get for her, and made her sit down on the window-seat.  It seemed a measureless time before she made the least attempt to speak; and again and again when she began to try, she failed.  She opened her mouth, but no sounds would come.  At length, interrupted with choking gasps, low cries of despair, and long intervals of sobbing, she said something like this: 

“I was going to drown myself.  When I came in sight of the water, I fell down in a half kind of faint.  All the time I lay, I felt as if some one was dragging me nearer and nearer to the pool.  Then something came and drew me back—­and it was you, Dorothy.  But you ought to have left me.  I am a wretch.  There is no room for me in this world any more.”  She stopped a moment, then fixing wide eyes on Dorothy’s, said, “Oh Dorothy, dear! there are awful things in the world! as awful as any you ever read in a book!”

“I know that, dear.  But oh!  I am sorry if any of them have come your way.  Tell me what is the matter.  I will help you if I can.”

“I dare not; I dare not!  I should go raving mad if I said a word about it.”

“Then don’t tell me, my dear.  Come with me up stairs; there is a warmer room there—­full of sunshine; you are nearly dead with cold.  I came here this morning, Juliet, to be alone and pray to God; and see what He has sent me!  You, dear!  Come up stairs.  Why, you are quite wet!  You will get your death of cold!”

“Then it would be all right.  I would rather not kill myself if I could die without.  But it must be somehow.”