his aid. If Janet went away alone he would be sure
to persecute her mother; and if she _did_ go away--what then? She must
work to maintain herself; she must exert herself, weary and hopeless as
she was, to begin life afresh. How hard that seemed to her! Janet's
nature did not belie her grand face and form: there was energy, there was
strength in it; but it was the strength of the vine, which must have its
broad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a firm stay. And now she had
nothing to rest on--no faith, no love. If her mother had been very
feeble, aged, or sickly, Janet's deep pity and tenderness might have made
a daughter's duties an interest and a solace; but Mrs. Raynor had never
needed tendance; she had always been giving help to her daughter; she had
always been a sort of humble ministering spirit; and it was one of
Janet's pangs of memory, that instead of being her mother's comfort, she
had been her mother's trial. Everywhere the same sadness! Her life was a
sun-dried, barren tract, where there was no shadow, and where all the
waters were bitter.

No! She suddenly thought--and the thought was like an electric
shock--there was one spot in her memory which seemed to promise her an
untried spring, where the waters might be sweet. That short interview
with Mr. Tryan had come back upon her--his voice, his words, his look,
which told her that he knew sorrow. His words have implied that he
thought his death was near; yet he had a faith which enabled him to
labour--enabled him to give comfort to others. That look of his came back
on her with a vividness greater than it had had for her in reality:
surely he knew more of the secrets of sorrow than other men; perhaps he
had some message of comfort, different from the feeble words she had been
used to hear from others. She was tired, she was sick of that barren
exhortation--Do right, and keep a clear conscience, and God will reward
you, and your troubles will be easier to bear. She wanted _strength_ to
do right--she wanted something to rely on besides her own resolutions;
for was not the path behind her all strewn with _broken_ resolutions? How
could she trust in new ones? She had often heard Mr. Tryan laughed at for
being fond of great sinners. She began to see a new meaning in those
words; he would perhaps understand her helplessness, her wants. If she
could pour out her heart to him! if she could for the first time in her
life unlock all the chambers of her soul!

The