But be the day glad or sad, time runs through it, and the shadows of evening found the whole city worn out with their own emotions. Mrs. Swaffham and Jane were glad to return to the quiet of their home—"Not but what we have had a great day, Jane," said the elder woman; "but, dear me, child, what a waste of life it is! I feel ten years older. It would not do to spend one’s self this way very often." "I am tired to death, mother. May I stay in my room this evening? I do not want to hear any more about the Cromwells, and I dare say Doctor Verity will come home with father, and they will talk of nothing else." "You are fretting, Jane, and fretting is bad for you every way. Why will you do it?" "How can I help it, mother?" Then Mrs. Swaffham looked at her daughter’s white face, and said, "You know, dear, where and how to find the comfort you need. God help you, child." And oh, how good it was to the heart-sick girl, to be at last alone, to be able to weep unwatched and unchecked—to shut the door of her soul on the world and open it to God, to tell Him all her doubt and fear and lonely grief. This was her consolation, even though no sensible comfort came from it—though the heavens seemed far off, and there was no ray of light, no whisper from beyond to encourage her. Hoping against despair, she rose up saying, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" and these words she repeated over and over with increasing fervour, as she neatly folded away her clothing and put her room in that exquisite order which was necessary to her sleep, or even rest. For she kept still her childish belief that her angel would not visit her, if her room was untidy. And who will dare to say she was wrong? These primitive faiths hold truths hid from the wise and prudent, but revealed to the simple and pure of heart. At nine o’clock her mother brought her a possett and toast, and she took them gratefully. "Is father home?" she asked. "Yes, Jane. He came in an hour ago with Doctor Verity." "Have they any word of——"