"He shall call upon me,"—ah, that she had done a great many times!—this was not the whole description. Who was it then who should be heard?—She ran back over the words rapidly, fastening then upon these few: "Because he hath set his love upon me"!—and Hazel knew she had set her love upon some one else. It was very bitter: the struggle was sharp and long: and duty and possibility, and wrong and right, fought each other and fired upon their own men. She could not take back her love: that was impossible. She might die, but that she could not do. And now with a certain gleam of comfort, Hazel remembered that Dane had not withdrawn his. How had he managed then? After all, it did not touch the question much,—he was a man, dependent of no one: she was a girl, with nothing in the world but him. Yet she wanted more. A strength above his, a love even more sure: "the things which cannot be shaken." So, slowly, she went back over the verses, laying hold still of but that one thing in her way: "He shall call upon me, and I will answer him." Yes, it must be meant for her. And Hazel tried to shut her eyes to the character that went with the promise. People like _that_, she argued, would need nothing,—it _must_ be for her. But oh she had called so very often!—Far back in the psalm, that is, close at the beginning, another word flamed up before her in a sudden illumination: a word she had read and reread, but now it stopped her short. Another three words, that is: "I will say." —Something that seemed to head the long list of blessings, something for her. But it was something for her to do. What, then? "I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust." "I will say."—But close upon that followed "Surely." _Could_ she say it? Was she ready for that absolute choice? The words came to her as she had heard Dr. Maryland read them: "You do now declare and avouch the Lord Jehovah to be your God; and Jesus Christ to be your Saviour; and the Holy Spirit to be your sanctifier. "You do solemnly give yourself away, in a covenant to be revoked, to be his willing servant forever." She had noticed the words so often, half putting them to herself in imagination, that now they came back to her with clear distinctness. _This_ was what the psalm meant; nothing less. "A willing servant?" Could she promise it? she, who hated control and loved so dearly her own pleasure? But it all came to that: "I will say of the Lord, He is my God."— Back and forth, back and forth, went thoughts and will and purpose: sometimes almost persuaded, sometimes all up in arms. Something gentler than need was lacking, something stronger than fear must work. Slowly and sadly she turned over the leaves, far on and on, to the other marked point: seeing them then, those common words of print that she had read so often, seeing them then in letters of flashing light.