But if any more was needed to make me feel quite hopeless and wretched, it was that sight of Walter, just after leaving Mary, when mother seemed to have no love left for her Kitty, and everything was changed. Doesn't God sometimes strip us for a while of all joy and pleasure, just to make us turn to Him? I do think He does, when it's needful, out of His great Fatherly love. And I think it was needful for me. Nothing less would have brought me to His Feet. So long as I had any earthly prop to cling to, I would have clung there. In that lonesome five miles' drive, it seemed as if every prop was gone. I don't think I cried. I had shed such lots of tears lately, I must have pretty near cried them all away. I only sat still, gazing at the hedges, and wondering if I should ever have any brightness in life again. Well, some amount of brightness didn't lie far ahead, but then one can't see ahead. There's never any knowing what'll come next. It was raining when I reached the Rectory, and I got out and stood in the passage as forlorn as could be. The maid saw my box brought in, and then— "I'll tell my mistress you've come," says she, and she went off somewhere. [Illustration: "'I am not making fun of you,' she said, as if afraid I should be offended at her."] I wondered how long I should have to wait, and while I was waiting, a little girl came out through a door. She was nine years old then, and I never can forget that first sight of her. She had been dressing up for a game with her brothers, and a green silk scarf was twisted round her fair hair. It was such a merry rosy little face, all full of fun and laughter. When she saw me she didn't turn grave. She came and stood in front of me, laughing still. "I'm not making fun of you," she said, as if she was afraid I should be hurt. "Only we have had such a game, and they took me for a baboon. Wasn't that comical? As if a baboon could wear a scarf!" Then a puzzled look came into her eyes. "Oh, I thought you were somebody else," she said. "I thought it was nurse's niece. Do you want to see my father or mother?" "I'm only Kitty Phrynne," I said, for I didn't know what else to reply. "Kitty Phrynne!" says she. And such a look of pity and tenderness came as was wonderful in a child's face. She stopped laughing, and her eyes were grave in a moment. "Kitty Phrynne! Oh,—I know!" The sort of sigh between those words! I don't know how it was, but I felt as if she understood. "Does mother know you've come?" she asked. "I think she's been told," I said. "Yes," —and she stopped. "Mother is busy," —and she stopped again. "Mother will like me to take care of you. Poor Kitty Phrynne!" says she, such a soft look in her eyes. "Poor Kitty Phrynne! I'm Kathleen Withers." She took hold of my hand, and made me come towards the staircase.