, these the worshippers
of Him who was bruised. His message could not be for her. It would be of
no use to find out about him; of no use to tell him how she loathed
herself and her life; that she wanted to know about that Rest, and about
that heavy-laden one. His followers would not brook the very flutter of
her dress against their pure garments. They were like him; he could have
nothing to say to such as she.

She turned to go out. Through the open door she saw the night and the
storm. Within was the silent dome, and the organ-hymn still swelling up
to it.

It was still of the wounded that they sang. Meg listened, lingered,
touched the preacher on the arm as he came by.

"I want to ask you a question."

He started at the sight of her, or more perhaps at the sharpness in her
voice.

"Why, why, who are you?"

"I'm Meg. You don't know me. I ain't fit for your fine Christian people
to touch; they won't let their little children speak to me."

"Well?" he said, nervously, for she paused.

"Well? You're a preacher. I want to know about Him they've been singing
of, I came in to hear the singing. I like it."

"I--I don't quite understand you," began the minister. "You surely have
heard of Jesus Christ."

"Yes," her eyes softened, "somebody used to tell me; it was mother; we
lived in the country. I wasn't what I am now. I want to know if he can
put me back again. What if I should tell him I was going to be
different? Would he hear me, do you suppose?"

Somehow the preacher's scholarly self-possession failed him. He felt ill
at ease, standing there with the woman's fixed black eyes upon him.

"Why, yes; he always forgives a repentant sinner."

"Repentant sinner." She repeated the words musingly. "I don't understand
all these things. I've forgotten most all about it. I want to know.
Couldn't I come in some way with the children and be learnt 'em? I
wouldn't make any trouble."

There was something almost like a child in her voice just then, almost
as earnest and as pure. The preacher took out his handkerchief and wiped
his face; then he changed his hat awkwardly from hand to hand.

"Why, why, really, we have no provision in our Sabbath school for cases
like this: we have been meaning to establish an institution of a
missionary character, but the funds cannot be raised just yet. I am
sorry; I don't know but--"

"It's no matter!"

Meg turned sharply away, her hands dropping lifelessly; she moved toward
the door