ut her hands, she spoke to
them, telling who she was, but no one paid any attention; only the little
dog Fido, who had been basking by the fire, sprang up, looked at her, and
retreating slowly backwards till he reached the wall, sat down there and
looked at her again, with now and then a little bark of inquiry. The dog
saw her. This gave her a curious pang of humiliation, yet pleasure. She
went away out of that little centre of human life in a great excitement
and thrill of her whole being. The child had seen her, and the dog; but,
oh heavens! how was she to work out her purpose by such auxiliaries as
these?

She went up to her old bedchamber with unshed tears heavy about her eyes,
and a pathetic smile quivering on her mouth. It touched her beyond
measure that the child should have that confidence in her. "Then God is
still with me," she said to herself. Her room, which had been so warm and
bright, lay desolate in the stillness of the night; but she wanted no
light, for the darkness was no darkness to her. She looked round her for
a little, wondering to think how far away from her now was this scene of
her old life, but feeling no pain in the sight of it,--only a kind
indulgence for the foolish simplicity which had taken so much pride in
all these infantile elements of living. She went to the little Italian
cabinet which stood against the wall, feeling now at least that she could
do as she would,--that here there was no blank of human unconsciousness
to stand in her way. But she was met by something that baffled and vexed
her once more. She felt the polished surface of the wood under her hand,
and saw all the pretty ornamentation, the inlaid-work, the delicate
carvings, which she knew so well; they swam in her eyes a little, as if
they were part of some phantasmagoria about her, existing only in her
vision. Yet the smooth surface resisted her touch; and when she withdrew
a step from it, it stood before her solidly and square, as it had stood
always--a glory to the place. She put forth her hands upon it, and could
have traced the waving lines of the exquisite work, in which some artist
soul had worked itself out in the old times; but though she thus saw it
and felt, she could not with all her endeavors find the handle of the
drawer, the richly-wrought knob of ivory, the little door that opened
into the secret place. How long she stood by it, attempting again and
again to find what was as familiar to her as her own hand, w