t, full of untainted blood,--gauged herself coolly, her
lease of life, her power of endurance,--measured it out against the
work waiting for her. No short task, she knew that. She would be old
before it was finished, quite an old woman, hard, mechanical, worn out.
But the day would be so bright, when it came, it would atone for all:
the day would be bright, the home warm again; it would hold all that
life had promised her of good.

All? Oh, Margret, Margret! Was there no sullen doubt in the brave
resolve? Was there no shadow just then, dark, ironical, blotting out
father and mother and home, creeping nearer, less alien to your soul
than these, than even your God?

If any such cold, masterful shadow rose out of years gone, and clutched
at the truest life of her heart, she stifled it, and thrust it down.
And yet, leaning on the gate, and thinking vacantly, she remembered a
time when through that shadow, she believed more in a God than she did
now. When, by the help of that very dead hope, He of whom she read
to-night stood close, an infinitely tender Helper, that with the
differing human loves she knew, had loved His mother and Mary.
Therefore, a Helper. Now, struggle as she would for warmth or healthy
hopes, the world was gray and silent. Her defeated woman's nature
called it so, bitterly. Christ was a dim, ideal power, heaven far-off.
She doubted if it held anything as real as that which she had lost.

As if to bring back the old times more vividly to her, there happened
one of those curious little coincidences with which Fate, we think, has
nothing to do. She heard a quick step along the clay road, and a muddy
little terrier jumped up, barking, beside her. She stopped with a
suddenness strange in her slow movements. "TIGER!" she said, stroking
its head with passionate eagerness. The dog licked her hand, smelt her
clothes to know if she were the same: it was two years since he had
seen her. She sat there, softly stroking him. Presently there was a
sound of wheels jogging down the road, and a voice singing snatches of
some song, one of those cheery street-songs that the boys whistle. It
was a low, weak voice, but very pleasant. Margret heard it through the
dark: she kissed the dog with a strange paleness on her face, and stood
up, quiet, attentive as before. Tiger still kept licking her hand, as
it hung by her side: it was cold, and trembled as he touched it. She
waited a moment, then pushed him from