r, or wife, or children, or lands, for my
sake," was ringing in her memory. Even Mrs. Frankland, in the rush of
oratorical extravagance, had not dared to give this its literal sense.
But she had left in it strenuousness enough to make it a powerful
stimulant to Phillida's native impulse toward self-sacrifice.

Once at home, Phillida could not remain there. She felt that a crisis in
her affairs had arrived, and in her present state of religious
exaltation she was equal to the task of giving up her lover if
necessary. But the questions before her were not simple, and before
deciding she thought to go and privately consult Mrs. Frankland, who
lived less than half a mile away in one of those habitable, small
high-stoop houses in East Fifteenth street which one is surprised to
find lingering so far down as this into the epoch of complicated flats
and elevated apartments.

Phillida was begged to come without ceremony up to the front room on the
second floor. Here she found Mrs. Frankland in a wrapper, lying on a
lounge, her face still flushed by the excitement of her speech.

"Dear child, how are you?" said Mrs. Frankland in a tone of
semi-exhaustion, reaching out her hand, without rising. "Sit here by me.
It is a benediction to see you. To you is given the gift of faith. The
gift of healing and such like ministration is not mine. I can not do the
work you do. But if I can comfort and strengthen those chosen ones who
have these gifts, it is enough. I will not complain." Saying this last
plaintively, she pressed Phillida's hand in both of hers.

If her profession of humility was not quite sincere, Mrs. Frankland at
least believed that it was.

"Mrs. Frankland, I am in trouble, in a great deal of trouble," said
Phillida in a voice evidently steadied by effort.

"In trouble? I am _so_ sorry." Saying this she laid her right hand on
Phillida's lap caressingly. "Tell me, beloved, what it is all about?"
Mrs. Frankland was still in a state of stimulation from public speaking,
and her words were pitched in the key of a peroration. At this moment
she would probably have spoken with pathos if she had been merely giving
directions for cooking the dinner spinach.

The barriers of Phillida's natural reserve were melted away by her
friend's effusive sympathy, and the weary heart lightened its burdens,
as many another had done before, by confessing them to the all-motherly
Mrs. Frankland. Phillida told the story of her lover, of his d