For Mademoiselle Lemaire herself was working over Mother like an engine, and Mother was still sleeping like the dead. The radiance that emanated from the night-body of this suffering woman, compared to their own, was as sunlight is to candle-light. Its soft glory was indescribable, its purity quite unearthly, and the patterns that it wove lovely beyond all telling. Here they surprised her in the act, busy with her ceaseless activities for others, working for the world by _thinking_ beauty. While her pain-racked body lay asleep in the bed it had not left for thirty years, nor would ever leave again this side of death, she found her real life in loving sympathy for the pain of others everywhere. For thought is prayer, and prayer is the only true effective action that leaves no detail incomplete. She _thought_ light and glory into others. Was it any wonder that she drew a special, brilliant supply from the Starlight Cavern, when she had so much to give? For giving-out involved drawing-in to fill the emptied spaces. Her pure and endless sources of supply were all explained. 'I've been working on her for years,' she said gently, looking round at their approach, 'for her life is so thickly overlaid with care, and the care she never quite knows how to interpret. We were friends, you see, in childhood.... You'd better hurry on to the carpenter's house. You'll find Jinny there doing something for her father.' She did not cease her working while she said it, this practical mind so familiar with the methods of useful thinking, this loving heart so versed in prayer while her broken body, deemed useless by the world, lay in the bed that was its earthly prison-house. '_He_ can give me all the help I need,' she added. She pointed, and they saw the figure of the Sweep standing in the corner of the room among a pile of brimming sacks. His dirty face was beaming. They heard him singing quietly to himself under his breath, while his feet and sooty hands marked time with a gesture of quaintest dancing:-- _Such_ a tremendously busy Sweep, Catching the world when it's all asleep, And tossing the blacks on the Rubbish Heap Over the edge of the world! 'Come,' whispered Cousin Henry, catching at Monkey's hair, 'we can do something, but we can't do _that_. She needs no help from us!' They sped across to the carpenter's house among the vineyards. 'What a splendour!' gasped the child as they went. 'My starlight seems quite dim beside hers.' 'She's an old hand at the game,' he replied, noticing the tinge of disappointment in her thought. 'With practice, you know----' 'And Mummy must be pretty tough,' she interrupted with a laugh, her elastic nature recovering instantly. '----with practice, I was going to say, your atmosphere will get whiter too until it simply shines. That's why the saints have halos.' But Monkey did not hear this last remark, she was already in her father's bedroom, helping Jinny.