eath, Polly could not bear to listen to hymns. In
church she had tried to shut her ears; her lips were closed tight, and
she diligently read to herself some other part of the service. For her
mother's sake, the hymns, with that one beautiful voice silent, were
torture to her; but Polly was a very proud girl, and no one, not even
her father, who now came nearest to her in all the world, guessed what
she suffered.

Now, lying on the moor, her mother's favorite hymn seemed to float down
from the stars to her ears:

"I know not the way I am going,
But well do I know my Guide;
With a trusting faith I give my hand
To the loving Friend at my side."

"The only thing that I say to Him
As He takes it is, 'Hold it fast!
Suffer me not to lose my way,
And bring me home at last!'"

It did not seem at all to Polly that she was repeating these words
herself; rather they seemed to be said to her gently, slowly,
distinctly, by a well-loved and familiar voice.

It was true, then, there was a Guide, and those who were afraid to go
alone could hold a Hand which would never lead them astray.

Her bitter sobs came more quietly as she thought of this. Gradually her
eyes closed, and she fell asleep.

When Flower started across the moor it was quite true that she was not
in the least afraid. A great terror had come to her that night; during
those awful minutes when she feared the baby was dead, the terror of the
deed she had done had almost stunned her; but when Maggie came and
relieved her of her worst agony, a good deal of her old manner and a
considerable amount of her old haughty, defiant spirit had returned.

Flower was more or less uncivilized; there was a good deal of the wild
and of the untamed about her; and now that the baby was alive, and
likely to do well, overwhelming contrition for the deed she had done no
longer oppressed her.

She stepped along as quickly as her uncomfortable boots would admit. The
moonlight fell full on her slender figure, and cast a cold radiance over
her uncovered head. Her long, yellow hair floated down over her
shoulders; she looked wonderfully ethereal, almost unearthly, and had
any of the villagers been abroad, they might well have taken her for one
of the ghosts of the moor.

Flower had a natural instinct for finding her way, and, aided by
Maggie's directions, she steered in a straight course for the village.
Not a soul was abroad; she was alone, in a great solitude.