But to do her justice, this formed a very small part of her trial. She was of a nature averse to change, firm in its attachments. To give up her home would have been heart-breaking, even though she should still have had the companionship of her mother. But when that was broken, and the whole face of her life changed, it seemed to her, indeed, a bitter fate. She could see no righteousness in it, no excuse, no palliation. She felt sure that it was but the beginning of the end, and that her mother could but a short time survive the fanatical sacrifice she had made. She imagined her in the reeking, filthy streets of midsummer, surrounded by detestable noises and sights, without the comforts to which she was accustomed. "Nothing prevents my coming to you, if I am ill," said her mother. "And, Missy, if I can live through _this_, I can endure anything, I think." CHAPTER XXVI. THE BROOK IN THE WAY. It was, indeed, the hardest part, that first step, to all, but it was accomplished, somehow. The early spring found Mrs. Varian in her new home, St. John established in his work, Missy and Miss Varian settled in the Roncevalle house, and the dear home shut up. It was in the market, to be sold if any one would buy, to be rented if nobody would. They had gone out of it, taking little, and it was in perfect order. About this time Missy broke down, and had the first illness of her life. St. John came up to her, and brought one of the newly-imported Sisters to nurse her. She would have rebelled against this, if she had been in condition to rebel. She was not, however, and could only submit. What is the use of going through her illness? We have most of us been ill, and know the dark rooms we are led through, and the hopelessness, and helplessness, and weariness; the foreign land we seem to be in, with well people stealing on tip-toe out of our sight to eat their comfortable dinners, with kind attendants reading the morning paper behind the window curtains, with faithful affection smothering yawns through our tossing, sleepless nights. Yes, everybody is well and we are sick. Everybody is in life, and we are in some strange, half-way place, that is not life nor death. We may be so near eternity, and yet we cannot think of it; so wretched, so wretched, the fretted body cannot turn its thoughts away from itself. We are alone as far as earth goes, and alone, as far as any nearness to Heaven feels. What is the good of it all? What have we gained (if we ever get back) by this journey into a strange land, that didn't seem to be joyous but grievous? Well, a great many things, perhaps, but one thing almost certainly: Detachment. It is scarcely possible to love life and see good days with the same zest after this sorrowful journey. It abates one's relish for enjoyment, it tempers one's thirst for present pleasures; it loosens one's hold upon things mundane. That is the certain good it does, and the uncertain, how infinite!