The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the dead, worn face.  There was a heavy shadow in the quiet eyes.

“Did hur know where they’ll bury Hugh?” said Deborah in a shrill tone, catching her arm.

This had been the question hanging on her lips all day.

“In t’ town-yard?  Under t’mud and ash?  T’lad ’ll smother, woman!  He wur born on t’lane moor, where t’air is frick and strong.  Take hur out, for God’s sake, take hur out where t’air blows!”

The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment.  She put her strong arm around Deborah and led her to the window.

“Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river?  Thee sees how the light lies warm there, and the winds of God blow all the day?  I live there,—­where the blue smoke is, by the trees.  Look at me.”  She turned Deborah’s face to her own, clear and earnest.  “Thee will believe me?  I will take Hugh and bury him there to-morrow.”

Deborah did not doubt her.  As the evening wore on, she leaned against the iron bars, looking at the hills that rose far off, through the thick sodden clouds, like a bright, unattainable calm.  As she looked, a shadow of their solemn repose fell on her face:  its fierce discontent faded into a pitiful, humble quiet.  Slow, solemn tears gathered in her eyes:  the poor weak eyes turned so hopelessly to the place where Hugh was to rest, the grave heights looking higher and brighter and more solemn than ever before.  The Quaker watched her keenly.  She came to her at last, and touched her arm.

“When thee comes back,” she said, in a low, sorrowful tone, like one who speaks from a strong heart deeply moved with remorse or pity, “thee shall begin thy life again,—­there on the hills.  I came too late; but not for thee,—­by God’s help, it may be.”

Not too late.  Three years after, the Quaker began her work.  I end my story here.  At evening-time it was light.  There is no need to tire you with the long years of sunshine, and fresh air, and slow, patient Christ-love, needed to make healthy and hopeful this impure body and soul.  There is a homely pine house, on one of these hills, whose windows overlook broad, wooded slopes and clover-crimsoned meadows,—­niched into the very place where the light is warmest, the air freest.  It is the Friends’ meeting-house.  Once a week they sit there, in their grave, earnest way, waiting for the Spirit of Love to speak, opening their simple hearts to receive His words.  There is a woman, old, deformed, who takes a humble place among them:  waiting like them:  in her gray dress, her worn face, pure and meek, turned now and then to the sky.  A woman much loved by these silent, restful people; more silent than they, more humble, more loving.  Waiting:  with her eyes turned to hills higher and purer than these on which she lives,—­dim and far off now, but to be reached some day.  There may be in her heart some latent hope to meet there the love denied her here,—­that