ng came and
drew me back--and it was you, Dorothy. But you ought to have left me. I
am a wretch. There is no room for me in this world any more." She
stopped a moment, then fixing wide eyes on Dorothy's, said, "Oh Dorothy,
dear! there are awful things in the world! as awful as any you ever read
in a book!"

"I know that, dear. But oh! I am sorry if any of them have come your
way. Tell me what is the matter. I _will_ help you if I can."

"I dare not; I dare not! I should go raving mad if I said a word about
it."

"Then don't tell me, my dear. Come with me up stairs; there is a warmer
room there--full of sunshine; you are nearly dead with cold. I came here
this morning, Juliet, to be alone and pray to God; and see what He has
sent me! You, dear! Come up stairs. Why, you are quite wet! You will get
your death of cold!"

"Then it would be all right. I would rather not kill myself if I could
die without. But it must be somehow."

"We'll talk about it afterward. Come now."

With Dorothy's arm round her waist, Juliet climbed trembling to the
warmer room. On a rickety wooden chair, Dorothy made her sit in the
sunshine, while she went and gathered chips and shavings and bits of
wood left by the workmen. With these she soon kindled a fire in the
rusty grate. Then she took off Juliet's shoes and stockings, and put her
own upon her. She made no resistance, only her eyes followed Dorothy's
bare feet going to and fro, as if she felt something was wrong, and had
not strength to inquire into it.

But Dorothy's heart rebuked her for its own lightness. It had not been
so light for many a day. It seemed as if God was letting her know that
He was there. She spread her cloak on a sunny spot of the floor, made
Juliet lie down upon it, put a bundle of shavings under her head,
covered her with her own cloak, which she had dried at the fire, and was
leaving the room.

"Where are you going, Dorothy?" cried Juliet, seeming all at once to
wake up.

"I am going to fetch your husband, dear," answered Dorothy.

She gave a great cry, rose to her knees, and clasped Dorothy round
hers.

"No, no, no!" she screamed. "You shall not. If you do, I swear I will
run straight to the pond."

Notwithstanding the wildness of her voice and look, there was an evident
determination in both.

"I will do nothing you don't like, dear," said Dorothy. "I thought that
was the best thing I could do for you."

"No! no! no! any thing but that!"

"Then of