This was too much for the mother; and now that the highest passions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom she looked up to as the prophet of God, she felt her girl was safe. The fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears of joy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now love God because God had spared to her, and to Himself, her only child. 'But, Mr. Penrose, Amanda says _it's all dark_. Dun yo' think yo' could lift th' claads a bit?' 'Well, we'll do our best; but to the One who loves her the darkness and the light are both alike.' And with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to where the sick girl lay. Mr. Penrose had often heard of Amanda Stott, and of that face of hers which had been both her glory and her shame. Now, as he looked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, the reflection of a character and a life. There was the gold and the clay. The brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving to the upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth and chin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit other than that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair. It was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, but of struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenly balanced in the soul. But there was victory on it. Mr. Penrose saw it, read it, understood it. There were still traces of the scorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of a new life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, was again blossoming as the rose. 'Amanda, here's Mr. Penrose to see thee. I've bin tellin' him it's all dark to thee. It is, isn't it?' But Amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not. 'Amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or twice, and that in the great crises of maternity, fall from woman's lips--'Amanda, speyk. Tell him what's botherin' thee.' But the girl was silent. Mr. Penrose was silent also, and nothing was heard in the room save the tremulous beat of an old watch that hung over the chimney-shelf--one of the memorials of a husband and father long since taken, and now almost forgotten. At last Amanda, without turning her face towards the pastor, said: 'Sir, I'm a sinner--a lost sinner.' 'No, you are not,' replied Mr. Penrose. And overawed and astonished with the boldness of his statement, he relapsed into silence. Amanda turned and looked at him clearly and unflinchingly, and cried: 'How dare yo' say that?' 'Because you've repented,' was the quiet reply. 'Haa do yo' know I've repented?' 'Because repentance is to come home; and you've come home, have you not?' 'Repentance is to come wom'?' slowly repeated the girl, as though some ray of light was penetrating the darkness. 'Repentance is to come wom', sen yo'?' 'Yes.'