uiet of his study; it came floating on the
winds as he walked the fields and moors; and would sound in
mockery as he, from time to time, declared a Father's love from
the old pulpit at Rehoboth. What cruel creed was this, prompting a
mother to believe that God would damn the child whom she herself
was forced, out of the fulness of her undying love, to take back
into her house and into her heart?

As the minister and Mrs. Stott sat down in the kitchen, the poor
woman, in the depths of her despair, again raised her eager face
and asked:

'But yo' durnd think Amanda's damned, dun yo'?'

'No, I do not, Mrs. Stott.'

This was too much for the mother; and now that the highest
passions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom she
looked up to as the prophet of God, she felt her girl was safe.
The fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears of
joy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now love
God because God had spared to her, and to Himself, her only child.

'But, Mr. Penrose, Amanda says _it's all dark_. Dun yo' think yo'
could lift th' claads a bit?'

'Well, we'll do our best; but to the One who loves her the
darkness and the light are both alike.'

And with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to where
the sick girl lay.

Mr. Penrose had often heard of Amanda Stott, and of that face of
hers which had been both her glory and her shame. Now, as he
looked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, the
reflection of a character and a life. There was the gold and the
clay. The brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving to
the upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth and
chin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit other
than that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair.
It was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, but
of struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenly
balanced in the soul. But there was victory on it. Mr. Penrose saw
it, read it, understood it. There were still traces of the
scorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of a
new life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, was
again blossoming as the rose.

'Amanda, here's Mr. Penrose to see thee. I've bin tellin' him it's
all dark to thee. It is, isn't it?'

But Amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not.

'Amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or