ather only! The Lord cannot even trust the pure human
that is in Himself to dwell, separately, upon that End which is to
be, but may not be yet!"

I do not suppose anything whatever could come into Miss Euphrasia's
life, or touch her with its circumstance, that she did not
straightway read in it the wider truth beyond the letter. She was a
Swedenborgian, not after Swedenborg, but by the living gift itself.
Her insight was no separate thing, taken up and used now and then,
of a purpose. It was as different from that as eyes are from
spectacles. She could not help her little sermons. They preached
themselves to her and in her, continually. So, if we go along with
her, we must take her with her interpretations. Some friend said of
her once, that she was a life with marginal notes; and the notes
were the larger part of it.

But Miss Euphrasia found a postscript, presently, to Sylvie's
letter, written hurriedly on the other side of the last leaf; as if
she had made haste, before she should lose courage and change her
mind about saying it:--

"Do you think it would be possible to find any sort of place in
Boston where I could do something to help pay, this winter,--and
will you try for me? I could sew, or do little things about a house,
or read or write for somebody. I could help in a nursery, or teach,
some hours in a day,--hours when mother likes to be quiet; and she
would not know."

This was essential. "Mother must not know."

The finding of this postscript drove out of Miss Euphrasia's mind
another thought that had suddenly come into it as she turned the
letter over in her fingers. It was some minutes before she went back
to it; minutes in which she was quite absorbed with simple
suggestions and peradventures in Sylvie's behalf.

But--"Brickfield Farms? Sandon? Josephus Browne." When had she heard
those names before? What hopeless piece of property was it she had
heard her brother-in-law speak of long ago,--somewhere down
East,--where there were old kilns and clay-pits? Something that had
come into or passed through his hands for a debt?

"There is a great tangling of links here. What are they shaken into
my fingers for, I wonder? What is there here to be tied, or to be
unraveled?"

For she believed firmly, always, that things did not happen in a
jumble, however jumbled they might seem. Though she could scarcely
keep two thoughts together of the many crowded ones that had come to
her, one upon another, this s