her see. I
told her I would send somebody who had more for her than I."

"You have told her the first message,--that the kingdom is at hand.
The Christ-errand must be done next. The full errand of _help_. That
was what was sent to the world, after the voice had cried in the
wilderness. It isn't Mr. Vireo or I,--but the helping hand; the
righting of condition; the giving of the new chance. We must not
leave all that to death and the angels. Miss Desire, this woman must
go to our mountain-refuge; to our sanatorium of souls. I have a good
deal to tell you about that."

They had walked on again, as they talked; they had come to the foot
of Borden Street. They must now turn two different ways.

They were standing a moment at the corner, as Mr. Kirkbright spoke.
When he said "our refuge,--our sanatorium,"--Desire blushed again as
she had blushed at Brickfields.

She was provoked at herself; why need personal pronouns come in at
all? Why, if they did, need they remind her of herself and him,
instead of merely the thoughts that they had had together, the
intent of which was high above them both? Why need she be pleased
and shy in her selfhood,--ashamed lest he should detect the thought
of pleasure in her at his sharing with her his grand purpose,
recognizing in her the echo of his inspiration? What made it so
different that Christopher Kirkbright should discover and
acknowledge such a sympathy between them, from her meeting it, as
she had long done, in Miss Euphrasia?

She would not let it be different; she would not be such a fool.

It was twilight, and her little lace veil was down. She took
courage behind it, and in her resolve,--for she knew that to be very
determined would make her pale, not red; and the next time she would
be on her guard, and very determined.

She gave him the hand he held out his own for, and bade him good
evening, with her head lifted just imperceptibly higher than was its
wont, and her face turned full toward him. Her eyes met his with an
honest calmness; she had summoned herself back.

He saw strength and earnestness; a flush of feeling; the face of a
woman made to look nobleness and enthusiasm into the soul of a man.

* * * * *

She sat in the library that evening at nine o'clock.

She had drawn up her large chair to the open fire; her feet were
resting on the low fender; her eyes were watching shapes in the
coals.

Mrs. Lewes's "Middlemarch" lay on he