She scarcely knew when her thoughts relaxed from their intense strain and rested with her body or when the night blurred into sleep and took her trouble all away. She only realized as she was drifting off, that her soul was crying, “Oh, God! Forgive me if I’ve done wrong. Take care of me, and show me what to do! For Jesus’ sake--take care of me--show me.” Was that a dream or footsteps stealthily along the road, pausing at the gate, noiseless footsteps like those in the cemetery? He was coming back--but he must not. Oh, what was he doing out there in the dark! Something that he was ashamed of? He had drooped and had not answered! “Oh, God, show him!” Was there some one at the gate? Or was it fancy. Ah--now they seemed to be going on. How sweet the breeze on her forehead--like the breeze from the open kitchen door. “Oh, God. Save him! Help me! Show me what to do.” CHAPTER VII The morning dawned with a luminous pink in the east and a sudden twitter of birds. April, and four o’clock in the morning; asleep in a hammock under a tree. What could be more perfect? Joyce, half conscious of the wonder all about her, had come to life with the first bird, and a sense of peace upon her. The daylight was coming and God had kept her. She might go on her way now and be undisturbed. Then a stab of pain at the memory of the night before brought her further awake. A low flying bird almost brushed her cheek with its wing, and the petals of the apple blossoms drifted down in her face. Such exquisite perfume, such melody of many throats, would it be something like this when one wakened in heaven and heard the voices of the angel songs? Beyond her sheltering tree the dim outlines of the old house loomed gently in the gray morning, such peace and safety all about. How good to be resting here. But Julia Hartshorn’s niece had picked out this especial morning to get up early and do some house cleaning before going to school, and just as Joyce was allowing herself to drift off again into drowsiness Jane Hartshorn’s alarm clock set up such a clang into the melody of the morning that Joyce came to herself in terror and sat up looking fearfully toward the house. Not for anything would she have them discover her there. She must get up and get out before the light. She must hasten now for some one was evidently going to arise at once, and it was not safe to remain another second. Hastily she felt for her handbag, realized that she had only one book instead of two, groped in the darkness for her hat which had fallen to the ground, and slid softly out of the hammock.