“You see a monster!” said the poor girl. She made a passionate gesture toward a mirror that hung opposite them; indeed, the glass showed a strange contrast. “Look!” she said. “Look, Grandmother, and tell me! When one is shut up in a prison like that, full of pain and horror—hasn’t one a right to get out if one can?” Seeing the wonder in Grandmother’s face she hurried on. “Father’s dead; poor father! I would not let myself think of it while he was living. He is dead, and there is no one else—except you, Angel, and you would understand, wouldn’t you? If I put this thing to sleep”—she struck her heart fiercely—“and slipped out of prison—Grandmother, what harm would it do? what harm _could_ it do?” “Nelly! Nelly dear,” said Grandmother, “you couldn’t—could you—go with your lesson half-learned? Such a strange, wonderful lesson, Nelly, and you have been learning so well. To go there, and when they asked you, have to say ‘I didn’t finish, I left it half-done, because I didn’t like it;’ _could_ you do that, do you think, Nelly dear? because—it wouldn’t be ready at the other end either, don’t you see, darling? It wouldn’t fit in. You haven’t thought of that, have you, Nelly?” Nelly hid her face in her hands, and there was a long silence. Presently she spoke, low and trembling. “Grandmother—suppose there wasn’t any other end! Suppose I couldn’t see—suppose I didn’t believe there was—anything more—when this hateful thing”—she plucked at her poor twisted body as if she would have torn it—“is buried out of sight with the other worms! what then?” “Oh, Nelly!” said Grandmother softly. “Nelly dear! if it were so; if this were the only lesson, mustn’t we try all the harder to learn it well? if this should be our only chance to help and love and tend and cheer, would we give up one minute of the time? Oh, no! Nelly, no! Think a little, my dear! think a little!” We all remember Saturday Nelly, in the little shop that Grandmother set up for her, selling sweeties to the children, selling thread and needles and tape, tending her birds and flowers, the cheeriest, gayest little soul in the village. Her shop was a kind of centre of merry innocent chatter for young and old; it was full from morning to night. We never thought much about Nelly’s looks except when we spoke of Grandmother; then her face grew beautiful. I think the children loved Grandmother better even than in her girl-days. The Saturday feasts were quieter, but still full of light and joy, and the stories—well, they were like no other stories that ever were told. “And oh! the words that fell from her mouth, Were words of wisdom and of truth.” So she lived, blessing and blessed, twenty more heavenly years; and so, when God called her, she died. We found her one morning sitting by the little cradle, her head resting on it, and a white rose in her quiet hand. When we raised her face and looked at it, there was no need to ask whither the spirit had gone.