t was driven to the cemetery, and in
beneath the sheltering trees, to a stopping place just upon a little
side turn, near the newly opened grave. No one, of those who
alighted from the vehicles of the short procession, knew exactly
when or how it had come.

The words of the prayer beside the grave,--most tenderly framed by
the good old minister, for the ear he knew they would reach--came in
soft and clear upon the pleasant air.

"And we know, Lord, as we lay these friends away, one after another,
that we give them into Thy hands,--into Thy heart; that we give into
Thy heart, also, all our love and our sorrow, and our penitence for
whatever more we might have been or done toward them; that through
Thee, our thought of them can reach them forever. We pray Thee to
forgive us, as we know we do forgive each other; to keep alive and
true in us the love by which we hold each other; and finally to
bring us face to face in Thy glory, which is Thy loving presence
among us all. We ask Thee to do this, by the pity and grace that are
in Thy Christ, our Saviour."

After that, they were driven straight in, over the long Avenue, to
the city, and to the quiet house in Pilgrim Street.

Ray herself, only, led Marion to the little room up-stairs which
had been made ready for her; Ray brought her up some tea, and made
her drink it; she saw her in bed for the night, and sat by her till
she fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

ERRANDS OF HOPE.

"It is a very small world, after all."

Mr. Dickens, who touched the springs of the whole world's life, and
moved all its hearts with tears and laughter, said so; and we find
it out, each in our own story, or in any story that we know of or
try to tell. How things come round and join each other again,--how
this that we do, brings us face to face with that which we have
done, and with its work and consequence; how people find each other
after years and years, and find that they have not been very far
apart after all; how the old combinations return, and almost repeat
themselves, when we had thought that they were done with.

"As the doves fly to their windows," where the crumbs are waiting
for them, we find ourselves borne by we know not what instinct of
events,--yet we do know; for it is just the purpose of God, as all
instinct is,--toward these conjunctions and recurrences. We can see
at the end of weeks, or months, or years, how in some Hand the lines
must have all been gathered, and mad