the
surface of her mind, yet a quaint, joyful confidence underneath in the
force of nature. A few words would be enough,--a moment, and all would be
right. And then she pleased herself with fancies of how, when that was
done, she would whisper to her darling what has never been told to flesh
and blood; and so go home proud, and satisfied, and happy in the
accomplishment of all she had hoped.

Mary came in with her candle in her hand, and closed the door between her
and all external things. She looked round wistful with that strange
consciousness which she had already experienced, that some one was there.
The other stood so close to her that the girl could not move without
touching her. She held up her hands, imploring, to the child of her love.
She called to her, "Mary, Mary!" putting her hands upon her, and gazed
into her face with an intensity and anguish of eagerness which might have
drawn the stars out of the sky. And a strange tumult was in Mary's bosom.
She stood looking blankly round her, like one who is blind with open
eyes, and saw nothing; and strained her ears like a deaf man, but heard
nothing. All was silence, vacancy, an empty world about her. She sat
down at her little table, with a heavy sigh. "The child can see her, but
she will not come to me," Mary said, and wept.

Then Lady Mary turned away with a heart full of despair. She went quickly
from the house, out into the night. The pang of her disappointment was so
keen, that she could not endure it. She remembered what had been said to
her in the place from whence she came, and how she had been entreated to
be patient and wait. Oh, had she but waited and been patient! She sat
down upon the ground, a soul forlorn, outside of life, outside of all
things, lost in a world which had no place for her. The moon shone, but
she made no shadow in it; the rain fell upon her, but did not hurt her;
the little night breeze blew without finding any resistance in her. She
said to herself, "I have failed. What am I, that I should do what they
all said was impossible? It was my pride, because I have had my own way
all my life. But now I have no way and no place on earth, and what I have
to tell them will never, never be known. Oh, my little Mary, a servant
in her own house! And a word would make it right!--but never, never can
she hear that word. I am wrong to say never; she will know when she is in
heaven. She will not live to be old and foolish, like me. She will go up