tering
up to the door of the house, my aunt, who was watching there, cried
out that I had a bit of a tinge in my cheeks, and charged Darry to
bring the horses up every day.

With a little bodily vigour a little strength of mind seemed to come;
a little more power of bearing up against evils, or of quietly
standing under them. After the third time I went to ride, having come
home refreshed, I took my Bible and sat down on the rug before the
fire in my room to read. I had not been able to get comfort in my
Bible all those days; often I had not liked to try. Right and wrong
never met me in more brilliant colours or startling shadows than
within the covers of that book. But to-day, soothed somehow, I went
along with the familiar words as one listens to old music, with the
soothing process going on all along. Right _was_ right, and glorious,
and would prevail some time; and nothing could hinder it. And then I
came to words which I knew, yet which had never taken such hold of me
before.

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works
and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

"_That_ is what I have to do!" I thought immediately. "That is my
part. That is clear. What _I_ have to do, is to let my light shine.
And if the light shines, perhaps it will fall on something. But what
_I_ have to do, is to shine. God has given me nothing else."

It was a very simple child's thought; but it brought wonderful comfort
with it. Doubtless, I would have liked another part to play. I would
have liked--if I could--to have righted all the wrong in the world; to
have broken every yoke; to have filled every empty house, and built up
a fire on every cold hearth: but that was not what God had given me.
All He had given me, that I could see at the minute, was to shine.
What a little morsel of a light mine was, to be sure!

It was a good deal of a puzzle to me for days after that, _how_ I was
to shine. What could I do? I was a little child: my only duties some
lessons to learn: not much of that, seeing I had not strength for it.
Certainly, I had sorrows to bear; but bearing them well did not seem
to me to come within the sphere of _shining_. Who would know that I
bore them well? And shining is meant to be seen. I pondered the
matter.

"When's Christmas, Miss Daisy?"

Margaret asked this question one morning as she was on her knees
making my fire. Christmas had been so shadowed a point to me in the
distance, I had