tered and safe.

The old church struck her as a home of perfect peace; in all the city,
she thought, there could hardly be another spot where she might rest so
quietly and contentedly. So for some little time she gave herself up,
body and soul, to the refreshing influences of the coolness, the
solemnity, the fragrance and the music; but presently her attention was
attracted to two women in the seats just in front of her.

One of them, who had a child on her arm, whispered to her neighbor:

"You here, Hannah, among the unbaptized? How are you going on at home?"

"I cannot stay long," was the answer. "It is all the same where one sits,
and when I leave I shall disturb no one. But my heart is heavy; the child
is very bad. The doctor says he cannot live through the day, and I felt
as if I must come to church."

Very right, very right. Do you stay here and I will go to your house at
once; my husband will not mind waiting."

"Thank you very much, but Katharine is staying with the boy and he is
quite safe there."

"Then I will stay and pray with you for the dear little child."

Dada had not missed a word of this simple dialogue. The woman whose child
was ill at home, and who had come here to pray for strength or mercy, had
a remarkably sweet face; as the girl saw the two friends bow their heads
and fold their hands with downcast eyes, she thought to herself: "Now
they are praying for the sick child . . ." and involuntarily she, too,
bent her curly head, and murmured softly: "O ye gods, or thou God of the
Christians, or whatever thou art called that hast power over life and
death, make this poor woman's little son well again. When I get home
again I will offer up a cake or a fowl--a lamb is so costly."

And she fancied that some invisible spirit heard her, and it gave her a
vague satisfaction to repeat her simple supplication over and over again.

Meanwhile a miserable blind dwarf had seated himself by her side; near
him stood the old dog that guided him. He held him by a string and had
been allowed to bring his indispensable comrade into the church. The old
man joined loudly and devoutly in the psalm which the rest of the
congregation were singing; his voice had lost its freshness, no doubt,
but he sang in perfect tune. It was a pleasure to Dada to listen, and
though she only half understood the words of the psalm she easily caught
the air and began to sing too, at first timidly and hardly audibly; but
she soon gaine