could be called
religious. She saw that it was not the time to speak; she must content
herself with being. Nor had it ever been any thing very definite she
could say. She had seldom gone beyond the expression of her own hope,
and the desire that her friend would look up. She could say that all the
men she knew, from books or in life, of the most delicate honesty, the
most genuine repentance, the most rigid self-denial, the loftiest
aspiration, were Christian men; but she could neither say her knowledge
of history or of life was large, nor that, of the men she knew who
professed to believe, the greater part were honest, or much ashamed, or
rigid against themselves, or lofty toward God. She saw that her part was
not instruction, but ministration, and that in obedience to Jesus in
whom she hoped to believe. What matter that poor Juliet denied Him? If
God commended His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners
Christ died for us,' He would be pleased with the cup of cold water
given to one that was not a disciple. Dorothy dared not say she was a
disciple herself; she dared only say that right gladly would she become
one, if she could. If only the lovely, the good, the tender, the pure,
the grand, the adorable, were also the absolutely true!--true not in the
human idea only, but in absolute fact, in divine existence! If the story
of Jesus was true, then joy to the universe, for all was well! She
waited, and hoped, and prayed and ministered.

There is a great power in quiet, for God is in it. Not seldom He seems
to lay His hand on one of His children, as a mother lays hers on the
restless one in the crib, to still him. Then the child sleeps, but the
man begins to live up from the lower depths of his nature. So the
winter comes to still the plant whose life had been rushing to blossom
and fruit. When the hand of God is laid upon a man, vain moan, and
struggle and complaint, it may be indignant outcry follows; but when,
outwearied at last, he yields, if it be in dull submission to the
inexorable, and is still, then the God at the heart of him, the God that
is there or the man could not be, begins to grow. This point Juliet had
not yet reached, and her trouble went on. She saw no light, no possible
outlet. Her cries, her longings, her agonies, could not reach even the
ears, could never reach the heart of the man who had cast her off. He
believed her dead, might go and marry another, and what would be left
her then? Noth