hose who can draw the
single cords, and save with love the single souls. They must suffer,
that they may also reign with Him. It is his gift to them and to
you. Will you take your part of it, and make theirs perfect? 'Let
not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me.
Ye believe in me, believe also in these.'"

"But I want to come where they are. I want to love and do for them;
do something for them in heaven, Mr. Vireo, that I did not do here!
Can I _ever_ have my chances given back again?"

"You have them now. Go and do something for 'the least of these.'
That is how we work for our Christs who have been lifted up. Do
their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link
yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and the life of it.
The moment you give yourself, you shall feel that. You shall know
that you are joined to them. You need not wait to go to heaven. You
can be in heaven."

He left her with that to think of; left her with a new peace in her
eyes. She looked round that hour for something to do.

She went up into old Mrs. Rhynde's room. She knew Ray and Dot were
busy. She found the old lady's knitting work all in a snarl;
stitches dropped and twisted.

Some coals had rolled out upon the hearth, and the sun had got
round so as to strike across her where she sat.

The grandmother was waiting patiently, closing her eyes, and resting
them, letting the warm sun lie upon her folded hands like a friend's
touch. One of the girls would be up soon.

Marion came in softly, brushed up the hearth, laid the sticks and
embers together, made the fire-place bright. She changed the blinds;
lowered one, raised another; kept the sunshine in the room, but
shielded away the dazzle that shot between face and fingers. She
left the shade with careful note, just where it let the warm beam in
upon those quiet hands. Some instinct told her not to come between
them and that heavenly enfolding.

She took the knitting-work and straightened it; raveled down, and
picked up, and with nimble stitches restored the lost rows.

Mrs. Rhynde looked up at her and smiled.

Then she offered to read. She had not read a word aloud from a
printed page since that night in Loweburg.

The old lady wanted a hymn. Marion read "He leadeth me." The book
opened of itself to that place. She read it as one whose soul went
searching into the words to find what was in them, and bring it
forth. Of Marion Kent, sitting in t