“That depends on the nature of the idea, I should imagine,” answered the curate. “Such things sometimes arise merely from the state of the health, and there the doctor is the best help.” Helen shook her head, and smiled behind her veil a grievous smile. The curate paused, but, receiving no assistance, ventured on again. “If it be a thought of something past and gone, for which nothing can be done, I think activity in one’s daily work must be the best aid to endurance.” “Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed Helen--“when one has no heart to endure, and hates the very sunlight!--You wouldn’t talk about work to a man dying of hunger, would you?” “I’m not sure about that.” “He wouldn’t heed you.” “Perhaps not.” “What would you do then?” “Give him some food, and try him again, I think.” “Then give me some food--some hope, I mean, and try me again. Without that, I don’t care about duty or life or anything.” “Tell me, then, what is the matter; I MAY be able to hint at some hope,” said Wingfold, very gently. “Do you call yourself a Christian?” The question would to most people have sounded strange, abrupt, inquisitorial; but to Helen it sounded not one of them all. “No,” she answered. “Ah!” said the curate a little sadly, and went on. “Because then I could have said, you know where to go for comfort.--Might it not be well however to try if there is any to be had from him that said ‘COME UNTO ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST?’” “I can do nothing with that. I have tried and tried to pray, but it is of no use. There is such a weight on my heart that no power of mine can lift it up. I suppose it is because I cannot believe there is anyone hearing a word I say. Yesterday, when I got alone in the park, I prayed aloud: I thought that perhaps, even if he might not be able to read what was in my heart, he might be able to hear my voice. I was even foolish enough to wish I knew Greek, because perhaps he would understand me better if I were to pray in Greek. My brain seems turning. It is of no use! There is no help anywhere!” She tried hard, but could not prevent a sob. And then came a burst of tears. “Will you not tell me something about it?” said the curate, yet more gently. Oh, how gladly would he relieve her heart if he might! “Perhaps Jesus has begun to give you help, though you do not know it yet,” he said, “His help may be on the way to you, or even with you, only you do not recognize it for what it is. I have known that kind of thing. Tell me some fact or some feeling I can lay hold of. Possibly there is something you ought to do and are not doing, and that is why you cannot rest. I think Jesus would give no rest except in the way of learning of him.” Helen’s sobs ceased, but what appeared to the curate a long silence followed. At length she said, with faltering voice: “Suppose it were a great wrong that had been done, and that was the unendurable thought? SUPPOSE, I say, that was what made me miserable!”