But Agatha was always a tower of strength to her, and whenever she felt unusually tired or depressed she would visit her, and come away refreshed. "Agatha," she said as she sat down by the couch, and laid her hand caressingly on Agatha's small white one, "I want to talk to Aunt Cecily about good things, and I feel tongue-tied. I don't know how to begin. Help me! It is so terribly pathetic to see her lying there day after day with her brain clear, but her body almost lifeless, and her speech difficult and uncertain. I wonder sometimes what she is thinking about. She was always so restless before this illness, always moving about her room, having her clothes altered, playing Bridge, looking at fashion magazines. She can do none of these things now." "No," said Agatha, smiling; "but she can do much better, she can lie in the Arms of the Bon Dieu and listen to His Comforting Voice. It's a great step upwards, Mademoiselle, to lie still and listen. A hush has been sent into her life, so that she can do it. It was too noisy before." "That sounds beautiful, but to her it will be incomprehensible. I want to help her. I have wanted to help her for a long time. I shall soon be going away, and I shan't have done it." "Then begin to-morrow, dear Mademoiselle." "What can I say?" "Read to her some of our Lord's words; you won't want many of your own." Adrienne thought over this, with the result that that very same evening she took up her aunt's Bible, which lay on her dressing-table, and approached her, rather timidly, with it. "Aunt Cecily, shall I read you a few verses out of this before you go to sleep—just to think over, and sleep upon?" The Countess stared at her and at the Bible, then she shut her eyes wearily. Adrienne took this to mean assent, as her aunt was capable of a negative shake of her head. So she turned to the third chapter of St. John, and read about the nightly interview between the ruler and His King. She did not read many verses, and that night made no comment on them. The next evening she continued the chapter, and still said nothing. It was some evenings before she summoned up her courage to say, after reading the end of the fifth chapter of St. John: "You know, Aunt Cecily, it is only since I came here that I have learnt to love my Bible, and I think you will find comfort in it. Little Agatha has taught me so much. She seems to live so close to God herself, that she draws everyone nearer to Him too. And she says you are now lying in God's Arms for rest and happiness." The Countess shook her head, but Adrienne saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "And," went on Adrienne slowly, "if we do come into God's Arms, it is to be forgiven, and loved, and blessed. He wants us, and is disappointed if we keep away. As He says in this chapter: "'Ye will not come to me that ye might have life.'" She said no more, but as time went on found it easier to speak about the things she had learnt to love.