She could submit,—she must _submit:_ could she accept? Nothing was anything without that. And she was getting almost too worn out to know whether she could or not. So she would sit, with her face buried in her hands, putting those fearful questions to herself, and with answering shivers running over her from head to foot. Then would come an interval of restless pacing the floor, thinking all sorts of things; chiefly, that the very minute it was light she would set off for Morton Hollow. What would that serve? what could she do, if she were there? But one Hand could meddle with these things, and work its will. And for a while a bitter sense of the Lord's absolute power seemed to lie on her head and heart till she felt crushed. She could not walk any longer, she could not debate questions; she could only lay her head against the arm of the chair and sit still, bearing that dull pain, and starting at the sharp twinges that now and then shot through it. There came to her at last, as she sat there, suddenly, the old words. Words read to her so long ago, and learned so lately. They had reached her need then, and there she had in a sort left them, bound up with that. But once more now they came, so new, so glorious, all filled with light. "For the love of Christ constraineth us"!—The key to life work, but no less to life endurance. And the key turned softly, and the bolts flew back, and Wych Hazel covered her face saying eagerly, 'Yes, yes!'— But then, even with the saying, she broke quite down, and a stormy flood of tears swept over her, and left her at last asleep. There was no going back when the day dawned. But Hazel soon found that this question was not to be ended once for all, like the other. It came up anew with each new morning, and must be so met, and answered: in full view of what unknown possibilities the day might bring or the night have brought, the assenting 'yes' must be spoken. The struggle was long, sometimes, and sometimes it was late before she left her room; but those who saw her face of victory when she came would remember it always. Still, the days were long. And hearts are weak; and Hazel grew exceedingly weary. Chafing most of all against the barriers that kept her from Morton Hollow. At first, when Dr. Maryland left her that night she thought she should go with the sunrise next day. Then recollected herself. 'I said I would follow his bidding _if I could_,' she remembered,— 'and I _can_ wait one day.' And so she _could_ wait two, and so she waited on. One day she _must_ go; the next, she would write and ask permission. 'But he never asked me to write!'—she thought suddenly, covering her face in shame. 'What would he think of me?' But oh, why had he given such orders?— It was the old story,—she was supposed to have no discretion.