In her own little room that night the girl knelt on the strip of rag carpet, and, with her head buried in the pink and white quilt, prayed that the voices of her self-will might be lost in the voice of the Holy Spirit. The coming back was even harder than she feared; Mr. King had not told her God’s truth when he said: “_His way is always easier than we think_.” The thought that she was bravely doing a hard thing did not brace her to the bearing of it; she was not bearing it at all; she was living through it. Roger had not once told her she was brave, Marion was not more than usually sympathetic; the neighbors were taking her coming back as a matter of course—something to be expected; they would have blamed her if she had not come; Aunt Rody every day was less fretful toward her, more satisfied with her nursing; Aunt Affy busy in kitchen and dairy, with the new importance of her marriage, and being for the first time mistress in her own house, seemed forgetful that the girl had come from any brighter life, forgetful that she had ever left the old place and its homespun ways, and, most discouraging of all, forgetful that any other help in household or sick-room was desired or might be had by searching and for money. For the first time in her life Aunt Affy was selfish. In her own contentment she forgot, or did not think it possible that the girl of eighteen could be discontented. Judith remembered that Harriet Hosmer had said she could be happy anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. But suppose she had not had her bit of marble? These days were the history of her summer of stories. The doctor told them that Aunt Rody might be helpless in bed for months; she might gain strength and sit in her chair again. He had known such instances. That was in the first week; in the second week he gave them no hope. The stricken old woman was alive; that was all she was to Judith: an old woman who was not dead yet. Judith was pitiful; she loved her with a compassionate tenderness as she would have loved any helpless, stricken thing; but she was hardly “Aunt Rody” any longer. She was as helpless as a baby, with none of a baby’s innocence, or loveliness or lovingness; there was no hope for this gray-haired, wrinkled mass of human flesh, but in casting off this veil of the flesh, no hope but in death. It was as if death were alive before Judith’s eyes, and within touch of her hand. She had no memory of Aunt Rody as the others had, to give affection to; there was only _this_. There was scarcely any memory for her gratitude to cling to. There was one comfort left; she was not afraid of her now. If she had stayed with her, instead of being at home at the parsonage, she might have grown up to love and understand her; instead she had grown away from love and understanding. She dared not think of release coming through Aunt Rody’s _death_. That would be desiring her death. Desiring one’s death in one’s heart was—.