The storm had been dark and windy: it cleared now slowly, the warm summer rain falling softly, the fresh blue stealing broadly from behind the gray. It seemed to Margret like a blessing; for her brain rose up stronger, more healthful. "I will not swear," she said, weakly. "I think He heard my prayer. I think He will answer it. He was a man, and loved as we do. My love is not selfish; it is the best gift God has given me." Knowles went slowly with her to the house. He was not baffled. He knew that the struggle was yet to come; that, when she was alone, her faith in the far-off Christ would falter; that she would grasp at this work, to fill her empty hands and starved heart, if for no other reason,--to stifle by a sense of duty her unutterable feeling of loss. He was keenly read in woman's heart, this Knowles. He left her silently, and she passed through the dark passage to her own room. Putting her damp shawl off, she sat down on the floor, leaning her head on a low chair,--one her father had given her for a Christmas gift when she was little. How fond Holmes and her father used to be of each other! Every Christmas he spent with them. She remembered them all now. "He was sitting by her now, holding her hand in his." She said that over to herself, though it was not hard to understand. After a long time, her mother came with a candle to the door. "Good-night, Margret. Why, your hair is wet, child!" For Margret, kissing her good-night, had laid her head down a minute on her breast. She stroked the hair a moment, and then turned away. "Mother, could you stay with me to-night?" "Why, no, Maggie,--your father wants me to read to him." "Oh, I know. Did he miss me to-night,--father?" "Not much; we were talking old times over,--in Virginia, you know." "I know; good-night." She went back to the chair. Tige was there,--for he used to spend half of his time on the farm. She put her arm about his head. God knows how lonely the poor child was when she drew the dog so warmly to her heart: not for his master's sake alone; but it was all she had. He grew tired at last, and whined, trying to get out. "Will you go, Tige?" she said, and opened the window. He jumped out, and she watched him going towards town. Such a little thing, it was! But not even a dog "called her nearest and best." Let us be silent; the story of the night is not for us to read. Do you think that He, who in the far, dim Life holds the worlds in His hand, knew or cared how alone the child was? What if she wrung her thin hands, grew sick with the slow, mad, solitary tears?--was not the world to save, as Knowles said?