Sadie,
bright, brilliant, unsafe Sadie, and go away where she could work for
her no more? Then, like a picture spread before her, there came back
that day in the cars, on her way to New York, the Christian stranger,
who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven--the
earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange
sentence on her lips: "Maybe my coffin will do it better than I
can." Well, maybe _her_ coffin could do it for Sadie. Oh the blessed
thought! Plans? YES, but perhaps God had plans too. What mattered hers
compared to _HIS_? If he would that she should do her earthly work
by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the "rest that
remaineth," "what was that to her?" Presently she spoke without
raising her head.

"Are you very certain of this thing, Doctor, and is it to come to me
soon?"

"That last we can not tell, dear friend. You _may_ be with us years
yet, and it _may_ be swift and sudden. I think it is worse than
mistaken kindness, it is foolish wickedness, to treat a Christian
woman like a little child. I wanted to tell you before the shock would
be dangerous to you."

"I understand." When she spoke again it was in a more hesitating tone.
"Does Dr. Douglass agree with you?" And the quick, pained way in which
the Doctor answered showed her that he understood.

"Dr. Douglass will not _let_ himself believe it."

Then a long silence fell between them. The Doctor kept his position,
leaning against the mantel, but never for a moment allowed his eyes
to turn away from that motionless figure before him. Only the loving,
pitying Savior knew what was passing in that young heart.

At last she arose and came toward the Doctor, with a strange sweetness
playing about her mouth, and a strange calm in her voice.

"Dr. Van Anden, I am _so_ much obliged to you. Don't be afraid to
leave me now. I think I need to be quite alone."

And the Doctor, feeling that all words were vain and useless, silently
bowed, and softly let himself out of the room.

The first thing upon which Ester's eye alighted when she turned again
to the table was the letter in which she had been writing those last
words: "Why life isn't half long enough for the things that I want
to do." Very quietly she picked up the letter and committed it to the
glowing coals upon the grate. Her mood had changed. By degrees, very
quietly and very gradually, as such bitter things _do_ creep in upon a
family, it grew to be