from above. But to-day it was not a solitary promise.
It was not even the sense that _all_ the promises to God's people from
generation to generation were hers to rely upon. It was the blessedness
of the knowledge that began to dawn, like heaven's own light, upon her,
the knowledge that she was no longer her own, but _His_ who had bought
her with a price--_His_ to have and to hold, in sorrow and joy, through
life and in death, henceforth and for ever. Now, "neither life, nor
death, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present,
nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, could
separate her from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Silently, with the thoughtful or thoughtless multitude, she passed from
the house of prayer. Yet her soul was sending up a song of praise that
reached the heaven of heavens. A forlorn little figure she must have
seemed to any chance eye that rested on her as she picked her way among
the pools that had settled here and there on the pavement. It was only
by a great effort that she held her own against the wind and rain, that
threatened to carry away her shawl, and rendered vain her attempts to
shield her faded crape bonnet with a still more faded umbrella. If one
among the crowd who met or passed her on her way took any notice of her
at all, it must have been to smile at or to pity her. Yet over her
angels in the high heavens were rejoicing. In her heart was the peace
that passeth understanding, soon to blossom forth into joy unspeakable
and full of glory.

Heedless alike of smiles and pity, she hastened along, unconscious of
discomfort. Even the near approach to the house, and the thought of the
peevish children and the dim attic-nursery, had no power to silence the
song that her grateful soul was singing. She went up the stone steps
without her accustomed sigh of weariness; and the face that greeted Mrs
Greenly as she opened the door, though pale enough, and wet with
rain-drops, was a very pleasant face for any one to see.

"You foolish child!" Mrs Greenly exclaimed, eyeing the little figure
that stood on the door-mat. "You would have been better at home."

Something in Christie's face kept her from saying more.

"I am very glad I went--very glad," said Christie, stooping to take off
her wet shoes, that she might not soil Nelly's spotless oilcloth; and as
she gathered them up and faced Mrs Greenly again, she repeated, sof