had very cheerful little suppers there by themselves in the
odd, bare little room, as homely and clean as Lois herself.

Sometimes, late at night, when he had gone to bed, she sat alone in the
door, while the moonlight fell in broad patches over the quiet square,
and the great poplars stood like giants whispering together. Still the
far sounds of the town came up cheerfully, while she folded up her
knitting, it being dark, thinking how happy an ending this was to a
happy day. When it grew quiet, she could hear the solemn whisper of the
poplars, and sometimes broken strains of music from the cathedral in the
city floated through the cold and moonlight past her, far off into the
blue beyond the hills. All the keen pleasure of the day, the warm,
bright sights and sounds, coarse and homely though they were, seemed to
fade into the deep music, and make a part of it.

Yet, sitting there, looking out into the listening night, the poor
child's face grew slowly pale as she heard it. It humbled her. It made
her meanness, her low, weak life so real to her! There was no pain nor
hunger she had known that did not find a voice in its inarticulate cry.
She! what was she? All the pain and wants of the world must be going up
to God in that sound, she thought. There was something more in it,--an
unknown meaning that her shattered brain struggled to grasp. She could
not. Her heart ached with a wild, restless longing. She had no words
for the vague, insatiate hunger to understand. It was because she was
ignorant and low, perhaps; others could know. She thought her Master was
speaking. She thought the unknown meaning linked all earth and heaven
together, and made it plain. So she hid her face in her hands, and
listened while the low harmony shivered through the air, unheeded by
others, with the message of God to man. Not comprehending, it may
be,--the poor girl,--hungry still to know. Yet, when she looked up,
there were warm tears in her eyes, and her scarred face was bright with
a sad, deep content and love.

So the hot, long day was over for them all,--passed as thousands of days
have done for us, gone down, forgotten: as that long, hot day we call
life will be over some time, and go down into the gray and cold. Surely,
whatever of sorrow or pain may have made darkness in that day for you or
me, there were countless openings where we might have seen glimpses of
that other light than sunshine: the light of the great Tomorrow, of the
lan