estion still lurked in her mind; her sorrow and
loneliness grew almost unbearable. She thought if she could only make
herself cry again perhaps she might sleep, and she took down a book
about Giordano Bruno, and read the account of his martyrdom, an account
which always moved her very much. But tonight not even the description
of the valiant unshrinking martyr of Free-thought ascending the scaffold
to meet his doom could in the slightest degree affect her. She tried
another book, this time Dickens's "Tale of Two Cities." She had never
read the last two chapters without feeling a great desire to cry, but
tonight she read with perfect unconcern of Sydney Carton's wanderings
through Paris on the night before he gave himself up--read the last
marvelously written scene without the slightest emotion. It was
evidently no use to try anything else; she shut the book, put out her
candle, and once more lay down in the dark.

Then she began to think of the words which had so persistently haunted
Sydney Carton: "I am the Resurrection and the Life." She, too, seemed
to be wandering about the Parisian streets, hearing these words over and
over again. She knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth who had said this.
What an assertion it was for a man to make! It was not even "I BRING
the resurrection," or "I GIVE the resurrection," but "I AM the
Resurrection." And yet, according to her father, his humility had been
excessive, carried almost to a fault. Was he the most inconsistent man
that ever lived, or what was he? At last she thought she would get up
and see whether there was any qualifying context, and when and where he
had uttered this tremendous saying.

Lighting her candle, she crept, a little shivering, white-robed figure,
round the book-lined room, scanning the titles on every shelf, but
bibles were too much in use in that house to be relegated to the attics,
she found only the least interesting and least serviceable of her
father's books. There was nothing for it but to go down to the study;
so wrapping herself up, for it was a freezing winter's night, she went
noiselessly downstairs, and soon found every possible facility for
Biblical research.

A little baffled and even disappointed to find the words in that which
she regarded as the least authentic of the gospels, she still resolved
to read the account; she read it, indeed, in two or three translations,
and compared each closely with the others, but in all the words stood
out i