“And what will you do with your life, now that you have been saved by the hand of God?  Will you dedicate it to Him, whose child you are?”

Agatha, chafing in her heart, paused a moment before she answered: 

“My life has not been without its tests of faith and of conscience, Mrs. Stoddard; and who of us does not wish, with the deepest yearning, to know the right and to do it?”

“Knowledge comes from the Lord,” came Mrs. Stoddard’s words, like an antiphonal response in the litany.

“My way has been different from yours; and It is a way that would be difficult for you to understand, possibly.  But you shall not condemn me without reason.”

“Are you going to marry that man you have been living with these many days?” was the next stern inquiry.

A stinging blush—­a blush of anger and outraged pride as much as of modesty—­surged up over Agatha’s face.  She was silent a moment, and in that moment learned what it was to control anger.

“I have not been ‘living with’ this man, in any sense of the term, Mrs. Stoddard.  I will say this once for all to you, though I never would, in any other conceivable situation, reply to such a question and such an implication.  You have no right to say or think such things.”

“Wickedness must be rebuked of the Lord,” intoned Mrs. Stoddard.

“Are you His mouthpiece?” said Agatha scornfully.  But she was rebuked for her scorn by Mrs. Stoddard’s look.  Her eyes rested on Agatha’s face with pleading and patience, as if she were a world-mother, agonizing for the salvation of her children.

“It is His command to pluck the brand from the burning,” said Susan Stoddard.  “Ungodly example is a sin, and earthly love often a snare for youthful feet.”

As Agatha listened to Mrs. Stoddard’s strange plea, the instinct within her which, from the first moment of the interview, had recoiled from this fanatical but intensely spiritual woman, found its way, as it were, into the light.  Such was the power of her sincerity, that, in spite of the extraordinary character of the interview, Agatha’s heart throbbed with a new comprehension which was almost love.  She stepped closer to Susan Stoddard, her tall figure overtopping the other’s sturdy one, and took one of her strong, work-hardened hands.

“Mrs. Stoddard, this man has never spoken a word of love to me.  But if I ever marry, it will be a man like him—­a plain, high-hearted gentleman.  There!  You have a woman’s secret.  And now come with me, and help us to save a life.  You can not, you must not, refuse me now.”

The subtle changes of the mind are hard to trace and are often obscure even to the eye of science; but every day those changes make or mar our joy.  Susan Stoddard looked for a long minute up into the vivid face bending over hers, while her spirit, even as Agatha’s had done, pierced the hedge which separated them, and comprehended something of the goodness in the other’s soul.  Finally she laid her other hand over Agatha’s, enclosing it in a strong clasp.  Then, with a certain pathetic pride in her submission, she said: