ing Fra Angelico's paintings. Then the angel's face recurred to
Lois, and she pulled herself up. The angel's face and the painter's
history both confronted her. On one hand, the seraphic purity and joy
of a creature who knew no will but God's will; on the other hand, the
quiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. Four hundred years
ago, Fra Angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearing
witness to God's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teaching
and admonishing herself. What did it signify just _how_ her own work
should be done, if only it were like work? What matter whether rough or
smooth, alone or in company? Where the service is to be done, there the
Master puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for the
servant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step he
follow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power,
that he show forth Christ to men. Then something like that angel's
security would be with him all the way, and something like that angel's
joy be at the end of it. The little picture had helped and comforted
Lois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almost
contented.

She went, however, in good time, before Madge could return home; she
did not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation which
might be expected. And Madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, that
she was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. But all Lois had
gained was a respite. The next morning, as soon as they were awake,
Madge began.

"Lois, we had a grand time last night! You were so stupidly asleep when
I came home, I couldn't tell you. We had a beautiful time! O Lois, Mrs.
Burrage's house is just magnificent!"

"I suppose so."

"The floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods--a
sort of mosaic--"

"Parquetry."

"What?--I call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders,--O, elegant!
And they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of all
sorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. She has got one of those
Persian carpets she was telling about, Lois."

"I dare say."

"And the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sort
of drapery--curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. And
O, Lois, the flowers!--"

"Where were they?"

"Everywhere! On tables, and little shelves on the wall--"

"Brackets."

"O, well!--shelves they _are_, call them what you like; and stan