On one occasion, when the pastor was sitting by her bedside, realizing, as afterward he insisted, that he was receiving rather than giving consolation, the door softly opened and Marion, unannounced, walked in. Perceiving the visitor, she was retiring when Mr. Angus rose to leave. "Don't go, please," Mary said to Marion, "I was just intending to ask the pastor to pray." Mr. Angus gave the sick girl his hand when his prayer was concluded saying, as he bent over-her, "Remember your promise to pray for me; pray that, whether led through a stony or a flowery path, I may have my Father's guidance as you have." Marion drew near the bedside as the pastor left the room, and was not surprised at the enthusiasm manifested for him by the cripple. "He is such a kind friend, so humble, so devout. His prayers raise me to heaven; and he is mindful of my earthly wants too. Look here," taking from an envelope a piece of silver, "he always leaves a token behind him, laying it on my pillow without a word,—sometimes a dollar, never less than half a dollar." "I was sure," answered Marion, in a hearty voice, "that he would be a comfort to you. You like him so much, I have a great mind to ask you a question. Have you ever noticed any peculiarity in his prayers or in his manner?" Tears gushed to Mary's eyes which no physical suffering could have forced from them, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could comfort him! And he says I have. He has a deep, abiding sorrow. It is living sorrow, too. It cannot be grief for the dead. Once he quite forgot that I was present, and he prayed; but it is too sacred to repeat. Oh, how my heart ached for him!" Mary covered her face and wept. "I wish he would unburden his heart to you, Mary. I'm sure you could comfort him. He is a puzzle to me. There is a weight on his spirits. I have seen an expression of agony come over his face when he thought himself unobserved. Well, we can pray God to appear for him. I have never spoken of him in this way before." "Grief is too sacred to meddle with, at least such grief as his, Marion. I have told my Saviour about it." When the young lady left the humble roof she repaired to the station near by to get her satchel, and found Mr. Angus just sending a telegram to the city. He advanced eagerly to meet her, holding out his hand. "You are the very one to advise me," he said, his whole face beaming. "I am a poor physician, but I know something of medicine. I have learned about Mary's case, and I do not feel hopeless of her recovery. You live in the city of New York, and have probably heard of the Home for the Sick." "Certainly I have. I often go there to visit my sick friends." "Then you will agree with me that, if I can procure a place for her in that Christian home, she will have a fair chance for recovery." "Strange I never thought of it before," murmured Marion, as though speaking to herself.