the time being, it fully absorbed her; and for the next few
weeks she made great progress. Then one morning Norman came to see
her. "Christine," he said. "I am in great trouble. Jessy is vera ill
with scarlet fever, and I am anxious about the children."

"Bring them all here, Norman."

"They'll mebbe hinder you i' your writing."

"But what is my writing worth, when the children are in danger? Go and
bring them here at once. Get Judith to come with them. With her help I
can manage. I will come in the afternoon, and sit with Jessy awhile."

"No, you willna be permitted. The doctors say there are o'er many
cases. They hae ordered the school closed, and they are marking every
house in which there is sickness."

This epidemic prostrated the village until the middle of January,
taking a death toll from the little community, of nearly eighty,
mostly women and children. But this loss was connected with wonderful
acts of kindness, and self-denial. The men left their boats and nursed
each other's children, the women who were well went from house to
house, caring tenderly even for those they supposed themselves to be
unfriends with. If the fever triumphed over its victims, love
triumphed over the fever. In the Valley of the Shadow of Death, they
had forgotten everything but that they were fellow-sufferers.
Christine's house had been a home for children without a home, and she
had spent a great part of her time in preparing strengthening and
appetizing food for those who needed it more than any other thing. No
one, now, had a word wrong to say of Christine Ruleson. She had been a
helping and comforting angel in their trouble, and if there had been a
woman or child more suffering and destitute than all the rest,
Christine had always taken her to her home. For in such times of
sorrow, God reveals Himself to the heart, not to the reason. Oh, how
far it is, from knowing God, to loving Him!

Well, then, Sorrow may endure for a night, but Joy cometh in the
morning. And the mornings grew to be spring mornings, full of that
sunshine that goes not only to the heart of man, but to the roots of
every green thing. The silence of the receding hills was broken by
streams glancing and dancing down the glens. The "incalculable
laughter of the sea" was full of good promise, for those who had been
sick, and for those who had perforce been long idle. The roar of angry
billows was hushed, and it came up to the land, hard-edged with stiff,
tinkl