was rising from the dead, was being new-born also.  She had not far to look back to the time when all was dull and dead in her being:  when the earthquake came, and the storm, and the fire; and after them the still small voice, breathing rebuke, and hope, and strength.  Her whole world was now radiant with expectation.  It was through her husband the change had come to her, but he was not the rock on which she built.  For his sake she could go to hell—­yea, cease to exist; but there was One whom she loved more than him—­the one One whose love was the self-willed cause of all love, who from that love had sent forth her husband and herself to love one another; whose heart was the nest of their birth, the cradle of their growth, the rest of their being.  Yea, more than her husband she loved Him, her elder Brother, by whom the Father had done it all, the Man who lived and died and rose again so many hundred years ago.  In Him, the perfect One, she hoped for a perfect love to her husband, a perfect nature in herself.  She knew how Faber would have mocked at such a love, the very existence of whose object she could not prove, how mocked at the notion that His life even now was influencing hers.  She knew how he would say it was merely love and marriage that had wrought the change; but while she recognized them as forces altogether divine, she knew that not only was the Son of Man behind them, but that it was her obedience to Him and her confidence in Him that had wrought the red heart of the change in her.  She knew that she would rather break with her husband altogether, than to do one action contrary to the known mind and will of that Man.  Faber would call her faith a mighty, perhaps a lovely illusion:  her life was an active waiting for the revelation of its object in splendor before the universe.  The world seemed to her a grand march of resurrections—­out of every sorrow springing the joy at its heart, without which it could not have been a sorrow; out of the troubles, and evils, and sufferings, and cruelties that clouded its history, ever arising the human race, the sons of God, redeemed in Him who had been made subject to death that He might conquer Death for them and for his Father—­a succession of mighty facts, whose meanings only God can evolve, only the obedient heart behold.

On such a morning, so full of resurrection, Helen was only a little troubled not to be one of her husband’s congregation:  she would take her New Testament, and spend the sunny day in the open air.  In the evening he was coming, and would preach in the little chapel.  If only Juliet might hear him too!  But she would not ask her to go.

Juliet was better, for fatigue had compelled sleep.  The morning had brought her little hope, however, no sense of resurrection.  A certain dead thing had begun to move in its coffin; she was utterly alone with it, and it made the world feel a tomb around her.  Not all resurrections are the resurrection of life, though in the end they will be found, even to the lowest birth of the power of the enemy, to have contributed thereto.  She did not get up to breakfast; Helen persuaded her to rest, and herself carried it to her.  But she rose soon after, and declared herself quite well.