Bonnie Bess hailed her mistress with delight, and Fay resumed her old rides and drives; only her husband was always with her. Hugh found out, too, that her clear intelligence enabled her to enter into all his work, and after that he never carried out a plan without consulting her; so that Fay called herself the busiest and happiest little woman in the world. * * * * * And what of Margaret? In one of the most crowded courts of the East End of London there is a sister who is known by the name of "Our Sister," though many patient, high-souled women belonging to the same fraternity work there too. But "Our Sister" is, _par excellence_, the favorite, from the crippled little road-sweeper who was run over in Whitechapel Road to the old Irishwoman who sold oranges by day, and indulged in free fights with others of her sex at night. "And the heavens be her bed, for she is a darlint and an angel," old Biddy would say; and it would be "tread on the tail of my coat"--for it was an Irish quarter--if any man or boy jostled "Our Sister" ever so lightly. "Our Sister" used to smile at the fond credulity and blind worship of these poor creatures. She was quite unconscious that her pale, beautiful face, bending over them in sickness, was often mistaken for the face of an angel. "Will there be more like you up yonder?" exclaimed one poor girl, a Magdalene dying, thank God, at the foot of the Cross; "if so, I'll be fine and glad to go." "What do they do without you up there, honey?" asked another, an old negro woman whose life had been as black as her skin; "they will be wanting you bery much, I'm thinking;" and little Tim, dying of his broken bones, whispered as "Our Sister" kissed him, "I am wishing you could die first, Sister, and then it would be first-rate, seeing you along with the gentry at the Gate;" for, to Tim's ignorant mind, the gentry of heaven were somewhat formidable. "And what must I say to them, plase your honor? when they come up and says 'Good-morning, Tim;' but if Sister were along of them she would say, 'It is only Tim, and he never learned manners nohow.'" Raby would come down sometimes, bringing his wife with him, and talk to Margaret about her work. "You are very happy, dear," he said one day to her; "I have often listened to your voice, and somehow it sounds satisfied." "Yes," she returned, quietly, "quite satisfied. Does that sound strange, Raby? Oh, how little we know what is good for us. Once I thought Hugh's love was everything, but I see now I was wrong. I suppose I should have been like other women if I had married him; but I should not have tasted the joy I know now. Oh, how I love my children--dirty, degraded, sinful as they are; how I love to spend myself in their service. God has been good to us, and given us both what He knew we wanted," and Raby's low "Amen" was sufficient answer.