icate and close and profound than heart has
yet perceived. It is but "a modern instance" how a mother, if she be but
a hen, becomes bold as a tigress for her periled offspring. A stranger
will fight for the stranger who puts his trust in him. The most foolish
of men will search his musty brain to find wise saws for his boy. An
anxious man, going to his friend to borrow, may return having lent him
instead. The man who has found nothing yet in the world save food for
the hard, sharp, clear intellect, will yet cast an eye around the
universe to see if perchance there may not be a God somewhere for the
hungering heart of his friend. The poor, but lovely, the doubting, yet
living faith of Dorothy arose, stretched out its crippled wings, and
began to arrange and straighten their disordered feathers. It is a fair
sight, any creature, be it but a fly, dressing its wings! Dorothy's were
feeble, ruffled, their pen-feathers bent and a little crushed; but
Juliet's were full of mud, paralyzed with disuse, and grievously singed
in the smoldering fire of her secret. A butterfly that has burned its
wings is not very unlike a caterpillar again.

"Look here, Juliet," said Dorothy: "there must be some way out of it, or
there is no saving God in the universe.--Now don't begin to say there
isn't, because, you see, it is your only chance. It would be a pity to
make a fool of yourself by being over-wise, to lose every thing by
taking it for granted there is no God. If after all there should be one,
it would be the saddest thing to perish for want of Him. I won't say I
am as miserable as you, for I haven't a husband to trample on my heart;
but I am miserable enough, and want dreadfully to be saved. I don't call
this life worth living. Nothing is right, nothing goes well--there is no
harmony in me. I don't call it life at all. I want music and light in
me. I want a God to save me out of this wretchedness. I want health."

"I thought you were never ill, Dorothy," murmured Juliet listlessly.

"Is it possible you do not know what I mean?" returned Dorothy. "Do you
never feel wretched and sick in your very soul?--disgusted with
yourself, and longing to be lifted up out of yourself into a region of
higher conditions altogether?"

That kind of thing Juliet had been learning to attribute to the state of
her health--had partly learned: it is hard to learn any thing false
_thoroughly_, for it _can not_ so be learned. It is true that it is
often, perh