The brightness struck sharply against the woman sitting there alone. Her face seemed to grow grayer and harder in it. The very hush of that princely sanctuary seemed broken by her polluted presence. True, she kept afar off; she did not so much as lift up her eyes to heaven; she had but stolen in to hear the chanted words that were meant for the acceptance and the comfort of the pure, bright worshippers,--sinners, to be sure, in their way; but then, Christ died for _them_. This tabernacle, to which they had brought their purple and gold and scarlet, for his praise, was not meant for such as Meg, you know. But she had come into it, nevertheless. If He had called her there, she did not know it. She only sat and listened to the chanting, forgetting what she was; forgetting to wonder if there were one of all that reverent throng who would be willing to sit and worship beside her. The singing ended at last, and the pale preacher began his sermon. But Meg did not care for that; she could not understand it. She crouched down in the corner of the pew, her hood drawn far over her face, repeating to herself now and then, mechanically as it seemed, the words of the chant. "Wounded--for our transgressions; and bruised,"--muttering, after a while,--"Yet we hid our faces." Bruised and wounded! The sound of the words attracted her; she said them over and over. She knew who He was. Many years ago she had heard of him; it was a great while since then; she had almost forgotten it. Was it true? And was he perhaps,--was there a little chance it meant, he was bruised for her,--for _her_? She began to wonder dimly, still muttering the sorrowful words down in her corner, where no one could hear her. I wonder if He heard them. Do you think he did? For when the sermon was ended, and the choir sang again,--still of him, and how he called the heavy-laden, and how he kept his own rest for them, she said,--for was she not very weary and heavy-laden with her sins?--still crouching down in her corner, "That's me. I guess it is. I'll find out." She fixed her eyes upon the preacher, thinking, in her stunted, childish way, that he knew so much, so many things she did not understand, that surely he could tell her,--she should like to have it to think about; she would ask him. She rose instinctively with the audience to receive his blessing, then waited in her hooded cloak, like some dark and evil thing, among the brilliant crowd. The door opening, as they began to pass out by her, swept in such a chill of air as brought back a spasm of coughing. She stood quivering under it, her face livid with the pain. The crowd began to look at her curiously, to nod and whisper among themselves. The sexton stepped up nervously; he knew who she was. "Meg, you'd better go. What are you standing here for?"