Wych Hazel roused herself up as the day came on, and looked things in the face so long, that her own face got little attention. However, Phoebe—and the force of habit—sent her down in the usual daintiness, at the usual time, to receive Mr. Falkirk, who after all did not come. But Dingee was on hand, and so Hazel made believe over her breakfast, quite successfully, and carried on her mental fight of questions the while with no success at all. So on through the day, until dinner time brought Mr. Falkirk; so on, with a semi-consciousness, through all the evening's talk; and when at length Wych Hazel went to her room again, it was with all the trouble of last night, and a day's worry additional. She knew what she wanted,—she did not seem to know how to get it. Those shining words lay up so high, above her reach: a mountain head lifting itself out of the fogs of the valley wherein she dwelt. As for the first verse of her psalm, it might as well have been a description of Gabriel, for any use to her,—so she thought, shrinking back from the words. Then for the second verse,—yes, there was human weakness there—or had been. Some time a refuge had been needed: but so long ago, that the years of calm security had wiped out even the thought of defencelessness. That was like Dane: she did not believe it ever occurred to him that he wanted anything, or could. What was he doing now to-night, in the darkness?—Hazel rose and went to the window. What work it must be, going round among the shadows of the Hollow, without a moon!—but then he would be in the houses,—darker still! She knew; she had sat there through one evening.—She stood still at the window, going over half mechanically to herself the next verses. "Surely,"—yes, it was all 'surely,' for him! was there nothing for her? She was not in all the psalm, Hazel thought. Unless—yes, that might fit well enough: she might stand for "the wicked" in the eighth verse. For studying the shining words that went before, there had come to her a feeling of soil, a sense of degradation, all new, and utterly painful. 'No use to consider that now,' she said, knotting her hands together as she went back to her seat. 'I want help. And I begin to think how much I want it, I shall lose my wits.'—Was there nothing for her? Again the promises ran on as before, with new images, fresh wording. There were angels enough keeping watch over Morton Hollow to-night!—was there no spare one to come to Chickaree?—Hazel put her head down and sobbed like a child in her loneliness and desolation. Next day she tried another plan, and began at the end of her psalm, passing over the promise of long life as not just now of much interest. And honour,—she did not want that; nor deliverance, where no devil was at hand. But this!— "I will be with him" — "I will answer him" — Was it for her?—To whom was it said?