impulse to confession almost always requires the presence of a fresh
ear and a fresh heart; and in our moments of spiritual need, the man to
whom we have no tie but our common nature, seems nearer to us than
mother, brother, or friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of
ourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and
those who sit with us at the same hearth are often the farthest off from
the deep human soul within us, full of unspoken evil and unacted good.

When Mrs. Pettifer came back to her, turning the key and opening the door
very gently, Janet, instead of being asleep, as her good friend had
hoped, was intensely occupied with her new thought. She longed to ask
Mrs. Pettifer if she could see Mr. Tryan; but she was arrested by doubts
and timidity. He might not feel for her--he might be shocked at her
confession--he might talk to her of doctrines she could not understand or
believe. She could not make up her mind yet; but she was too restless
under this mental struggle to remain in bed.

'Mrs. Pettifer,' she said, 'I can't lie here any longer; I must get up.
Will you lend me some clothes?'

Wrapt in such drapery as Mrs. Pettifer could find for her tall figure,
Janet went down into the little parlour, and tried to take some of the
breakfast her friend had prepared for her. But her effort was not a
successful one; her cup of tea and bit of toast were only half finished.
The leaden weight of discouragement pressed upon her more and more
heavily. The wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain had come on; there was
no prospect from Mrs. Pettifer's parlour but a blank wall; and as Janet
looked out at the window, the rain and the smoke-blackened bricks seemed
to blend themselves in sickening identity with her desolation of spirit
and the headachy weariness of her body.

Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, and
sat down with her sewing, hoping that Janet would perhaps be able to talk
a little of what had passed, and find some relief by unbosoming herself
in that way. But Janet could not speak to her; she was importuned with
the longing to see Mr. Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it.

Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on drizzling, and Janet sat
still, leaning her aching head on her hand, and looking alternately at
the fire and out of the window. She felt this could not last--this
motionless, vacant misery. She must determine on something, she must