ent again for a time; silent and still. Then Diana spoke
timidly:

"Do you think it would be wrong for him to know?"

Her husband delayed his answer a little; truly, if Diana had something
to suffer, so had he; and I suppose there was somewhat of a struggle in
his own mind to be won through; however, the answer when it came was a
quiet negative.

"May I write and tell him?"

He bent down and kissed her fingers as he replied--"I will."

"O Basil," said the woman at his feet, "I have wished I could die a
thousand times!--and I am well and strong, and I cannot die."

"No," he said gravely; "we must not run away from our work."

"Work!" said Diana, sitting back now and looking up at him;--"what
work?"

"The work our Master has given us to do to glorify him. To fight with
evil and overcome it; to endure temptation, and baffle it; to carry our
banner of salvation through the thick of the smoke and the fire, and
never let it fall."

"I am so weak, I cannot fight."

"The fight of faith you can. The only sort of fighting that can
prevail. Faith lays hold of Christ's strength, and so comes off more
than conqueror. All you can do, is to hold fast to him."

"O Basil! why does he let such things happen? why does he let such
things happen? Here is my life broken--and yours; both broken and
ruined."

"No," the minister answered quietly,--"not mine, nor yours. Broken, if
you will, but not ruined. Neither yours nor mine, Diana. With the love
of Christ in our hearts, that can never be. He will not let it be."

"It is all ruined," said Diana; "it is all ruined. I am full of evil
thoughts, and no good left. I have wished to die, and I have wanted to
run away--I felt as if I must"--

"But instead of dying or running away, you have stood nobly and bravely
to your post of suffering. Wait and trust. The Lord means good to us
yet."

"What possible good?"

"Perhaps, that being stripped of all else, we may come to know him."

"Is it necessary that people should be stripped of all before they can
do that?"

"Sometimes."

Diana stood still, and again there was silence in the room. The soft
June air, heavy with the breath of roses, floated in at the open
window, bringing one of those sharp contrasts which make the heart sick
with memory and longing; albeit the balsam of promise be there too.
People miss that. "Now men see not the bright light that is in the
clouds;" and how should they? when the darkness of night seems to h