“And you a pleasant one,” he rejoined with a gallant bow. “’We are such stuff as dreams are made of—­and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”

She lay for a long time wakeful, revelling in the strange sense of peace which seemed to enfold her, while the evening breeze blew through the room and the twilight threw weird shadows among the dainty draperies.  At length there came a low knock and Mrs. Everidge opened the door.

Evadne stretched out her hands impulsively.  “Oh, this beautiful stillness!” she exclaimed.  “In Marlborough there is the clang of the car gongs and the rumble of cabs and the tramp of feet upon the pavement until it seems as if the weary world were never to be at rest, but this house is so quiet I could almost hear a pin drop.”

Mrs. Everidge smiled.  “You have quick ears, little one.  But we are quieter than usual to-night; Joanna is sitting up with a sick neighbor, your uncle went to his room early, and I have been reading in mine.”

She drew a low chair up beside the bed.  “Now we must begin to get acquainted,” she said.

“Dear Aunt Marthe!” cried Evadne, “I feel as if I had known you all my life.”

She gave her a swift caress.  “You dear child!  Then tell me about your father.”

Evadne looked at her gratefully.  No one had ever cared to know about her father before.  Forgetting her weariness in the absorbing interest of her subject, she talked on and on, and Mrs. Everidge with the wisdom of true sympathy, made no attempt to check her, knowing full well that the relief of the tried heart was helping her more than any physical rest could do.

“And now, oh, Aunt Marthe, life is so desperately lonely!” she said at last with a sobbing sigh.

Mrs. Everidge leaned over and kissed the trembling lips.  “I think sometimes the earthly fatherhood is taken from us, dear child, that we may learn to know the beautiful Fatherliness of God.  We can never find true happiness until our restless hearts are folded close in the hush of his love.  Human love—­however lovely—­does not satisfy us.  Nothing can,—­but God!”

“The Fatherliness of God,” repeated Evadne.  “That sounds lovely, but people do not think of him so.  God is someone very terrible and far away.”

“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.’  Does that sound as if he were far away, little one?  ’As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.’  Why, God is father and mother both to us, dear child.  Can you think of anyone nearer than that?”

Evadne caught her breath in a great gladness.  “I believe you are his angel of consolation,” she said in a hushed voice.

“’Even unto them will I give ... a place and a name better than of sons and daughters,’” quoted Aunt Marthe softly.  “That means a location and an identity.  Here, sometimes, it seems as if we had neither the one nor the other.  Christ follows out the same idea in his picture of the abiding place which is being prepared for you and me.  Everything on earth is so transitory, and the human heart has such a hunger for something that will last.”