rning there was another awake and up early. When Juliet was
about half-way across the park, hurrying to the water, Dorothy was
opening the door of the empty house, seeking solitude that she might
find the one Dweller therein. She went straight to one of the upper
rooms looking out upon the garden, and kneeling prayed to her Unknown
God. As she kneeled, the first rays of the sunrise visited her face.
That face was in itself such an embodied prayer, that had any one seen
it, he might, when the beams fell upon it, have imagined he saw prayer
and answer meet. It was another sunrise Dorothy was looking for, but she
started and smiled when the warm rays touched her; they too came from
the home of answers. As the daisy mimics the sun, so is the central fire
of our system but a flower that blossoms in the eternal effulgence of
the unapproachable light.

The God to whom we pray is nearer to us than the very prayer itself ere
it leaves the heart; hence His answers may well come to us through the
channel of our own thoughts. But the world too being itself one of His
thoughts, He may also well make the least likely of His creatures an
angel of His own will to us. Even the blind, if God be with him, that
is, if he knows he is blind and does not think he sees, may become a
leader of the blind up to the narrow gate. It is the blind who says _I
see_, that leads his fellow into the ditch.

The window near which Dorothy kneeled, and toward which in the instinct
for light she had turned her face, looked straight down the garden, at
the foot of which the greater part of the circumference of the pond was
visible. But Dorothy, busy with her prayers, or rather with a weight of
hunger and thirst, from which like a burst of lightning skyward from the
overcharged earth, a prayer would now and then break and rush
heavenward, saw nothing of the outer world: between her and a sister
soul in mortal agony, hung the curtains of her eyelids. But there were
no shutters to her ears, and in at their portals all of a sudden darted
a great and bitter cry, as from a heart in the gripe of a fierce terror.
She had been so absorbed, and it so startled and shook her, that she
never could feel certain whether the cry she heard was of this world or
not. Half-asleep one hears such a cry, and can not tell whether it
entered his consciousness by the ear, or through some hidden channel of
the soul. Assured that waking ears heard nothing, he remains, it may be,
in equ