in the
window, and a little canary, dressed in brown and gold like Desire
herself, swung over them in a white wire cage.

When Desire saw how still it was, and how Rachel Froke sat there
with her open window and her open book, all by herself, she stopped
in the doorway with a sudden feeling of intrusion, which had not
occurred to her as she came.

"It's just what I want to come into; but if I do, it won't be
there. I've no right to spoil it. Don't mind, Rachel. I'll go away."

She said it softly and sadly, as if she could not help it, and was
turning back into the hall.

"But I do mind," said Rachel, speaking quickly. "Thee will come in,
and sit down. Whatever it is thee wants, is here for thee. Is it the
stillness? Then we will be still."

"That's so easy to say. But you can't do it for me. _You_ will be
still, and I shall be all in a stir. I want so to be just hushed
up!"

"Fed, and hushed up, in somebody's arms, like a baby. I know," said
Rachel Froke.

"How does she know?" thought Desire; but she only looked at her with
surprised eyes, saying nothing.

"Hungry and restless; that's what we all are," said Rachel Froke,
"until"--

"Well,--until?" demanded the strange girl, impetuously, as Rachel
paused. "I've been hungry ever since I was born, mother says."

"Until He takes us up and feeds us."

"Why don't He?--Mrs. Froke, when does He give it out? Once a month,
in church, they have the bread and the wine? Does that do it?"

"Thee knows we do not hold by ordinances, we Friends," said Rachel.
"But He gives the bread of life. Not once a month, or in any place;
it is his word. Does thee get no word when thee goes to church? Does
nothing come to thee?"

"I don't know; it's mixed up; the church is full of bonnets; and
people settle their gowns when they come in, and shake out their
hitches and puffs when they go out, and there's professional music
at one end, and--I suppose it's because I'm bad, but I don't know;
half the time it seems to me it's only Mig at the other. Something
all fixed up, and patted down, and smoothed over, and salted and
buttered, like the potato hills they used to make on my plate for me
at dinner, when I was little. But it's soggy after all, and has an
underground taste. It isn't anything that has just grown, up in the
light, like the ears of corn they rubbed in their hands. Breakfast
is better than dinner. Bread, with yeast in it, risen up new. They
don't feed with bread very ofte