had sent it anonymously to the man, though she feared that he
suspected from whom it came; and that was the saddest stroke of all, "for,
friend Biddle," she wrote, "I know not if I am anything unto him, but I do
assure thee he is much to me." (Poor friend Barbara! how I pitied thee for
that!)

This was all of the letter, and I read it through twice.

I had gotten over my foolish emotion of disappointment, as I have told
thee before this, and I went back to my office and indited a reply to the
epistle immediately. "Let it be as thee has done, and thee may think that
I fully sympathize with thee." That was my only reply.

And when I thought over the letter--her letter--from beginning to end, all
day long, I did not see that I could have indited a different reply.
Still, when I went home to friend Afton's house, and friend Afton came to
me and told me that friend Jordan had had a more miserable day than ever,
although my sympathy was fully aroused, yet it was with a sense of relief
that I entered my room and closed the door, for I bethought me that I had
much to ponder on. But my thought was interrupted: the poor demented woman
was weeping in her room. She was stormy in her grief, and I heard friend
Afton scolding. I opened my door. "Friend Jordan, is thee grieved?" I
asked.

"Oh, Quaker," she cried, running to me, "they are all in the sky calling
to me, and this woman will not let me reach them."

"She would have jumped out," whispered friend Afton, "and I had to nail
down the sash."

I nodded, and motioned for her to keep quiet. "Does thee think thee would
like to talk to me a while?" I asked.

"Not now, for I only want to talk with them. But tell me, Quaker--tell me
if you want one thing more than any other in this world, and I will ask
them to give it to you. Is there any one that you want to love you? For
they can easily help you, as they have made me love you, and made you be
good to me."

"Nay, friend," I said, "even the light from the stars cannot make one care
for me who would not."

Then she cried out that I was sorrowful, and that I made her heart
heavy--I who had always been a comfort and a guidance before.

"I will be so to thee now," I said.

"Then give me rest," she cried.

"The Lord knows I would give thee rest, O soul! if I could."

She looked at me most suddenly--I may say as a flash--and quickly glanced
in at my room.

"Then I think I can rest in your room," she said.

"Thee shall do