ry sweet to be loved."

"Oh, my daughter, my daughter, a terrible situation, terrible,
terrible!"

"Mother, I have told you everything. Tell me now what hope is left. Give
me your direction."

"My daughter, let us humble ourselves before God, and pray that He may
reveal the path of duty. Come."

The superior rose, took her crozier in her hand, and walked out of the
room. The sister followed her. They passed through the sacristy into the
empty church.

It was evening. The glow of a wintery sunset came through the windows to
the west, and fell in warm gules on the altar. There was the hush of the
world's awe here as day swooned into night. Without these walls were
turmoil and strife. Within was the balm of rest--the rest that lies in
the heart of the cyclone.

And the good mother and the sister went down on their knees together,
and prayed for light and guidance. The mother rose, but the sister knelt
on; darkness fell, and she was still kneeling, and when the east was
dabbled with the dawn, the gray light fell on her bowed head and
uplifted hands.

_BOOK IV._

THE WATERS OF MARAH ARE BITTER.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE YEAR 1877.

The dale lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that ran through
its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves prattled low
in the light breeze that souched through the rushes and the long grass;
the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of the sky, where
only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak to peak. Out of
unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble of distant
cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far away was the
thin caroling of birds overhead.

But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell
that lies over against Cat Bells a procession of children walked, and
sung, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they were
rush-bearing: little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen,
just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four
in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in
front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled
with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the
school-house, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the
circuit of the dale.

They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of
Newlands, and turned down into the pa