Yes, she had been abundantly counselled, and she remembered especially the last warning that she received before her marriage. She was at the Salutation Hotel on Lake Windermere, standing at the window of her room looking over the lovely scene. All Nature was calm as a resting wheel, the sky full of stars; all the mystery and majesty of earth, the lake, the woods, the mountains encompassed her. And as she stood there musing on the past, and on the future as connected with Robert Campbell, the voice she knew so well pleaded with her for the last time. "_Are you able?_" it asked. "Yes," she answered softly but audibly. "_The fight will be hard._" "I shall win it." "_Though as by fire!_" Then she was alone, and she felt strangely desolate and afraid. For though one come from the dead, the soul self-centred and confident in its own wisdom will not believe. Then it can only learn its life's lesson by those cruel experiences from which its good angel would so gladly have saved it. "_Though as by fire! Though as by fire!_" Often she had thought of that prophecy since her marriage, when she had been forced day after day to say with David: "They have spoken against me with a lying tongue. "They compassed me about with words of hatred, and fought against me without cause. "For my love they are my adversaries, and they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love." She was sitting alone one afternoon, and very weary and disconsolate after a morning of petty slights, and unkind words, when Robert entered. He was earlier than usual and more responsive to her smile of welcome. "I am so glad to see you, Robert, so glad! I did not expect you for an hour." "The minister called on me this afternoon, and I returned to the city with him. He wants you to sing, Dora, at the New Year's service. He is going to preach from the first verse of the fourteenth of Job: 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.' He says the sermon will necessarily be solemn and warning, so he wishes you to sing something that lifts up the heart and looks hopefully forward." "Are you willing that I should sing, Robert?" "Yes, I should like you to do so." "Then what could be better than Job's triumphant confession, '_I know that my Redeemer liveth_'?" "That is the very thing! You sung it once in Sheffield. I have never forgotten it." "Has your mother been told about my singing, '_O that I had wings like a dove_'?" "No. I have never found a good opportunity to tell her. I knew she would feel it much. As soon as you have settled the matter with the doctor, I will tell her of both together."