The same morning there was another awake and up early.  When Juliet was about half-way across the park, hurrying to the water, Dorothy was opening the door of the empty house, seeking solitude that she might find the one Dweller therein.  She went straight to one of the upper rooms looking out upon the garden, and kneeling prayed to her Unknown God.  As she kneeled, the first rays of the sunrise visited her face.  That face was in itself such an embodied prayer, that had any one seen it, he might, when the beams fell upon it, have imagined he saw prayer and answer meet.  It was another sunrise Dorothy was looking for, but she started and smiled when the warm rays touched her; they too came from the home of answers.  As the daisy mimics the sun, so is the central fire of our system but a flower that blossoms in the eternal effulgence of the unapproachable light.

The God to whom we pray is nearer to us than the very prayer itself ere it leaves the heart; hence His answers may well come to us through the channel of our own thoughts.  But the world too being itself one of His thoughts, He may also well make the least likely of His creatures an angel of His own will to us.  Even the blind, if God be with him, that is, if he knows he is blind and does not think he sees, may become a leader of the blind up to the narrow gate.  It is the blind who says I see, that leads his fellow into the ditch.

The window near which Dorothy kneeled, and toward which in the instinct for light she had turned her face, looked straight down the garden, at the foot of which the greater part of the circumference of the pond was visible.  But Dorothy, busy with her prayers, or rather with a weight of hunger and thirst, from which like a burst of lightning skyward from the overcharged earth, a prayer would now and then break and rush heavenward, saw nothing of the outer world:  between her and a sister soul in mortal agony, hung the curtains of her eyelids.  But there were no shutters to her ears, and in at their portals all of a sudden darted a great and bitter cry, as from a heart in the gripe of a fierce terror.  She had been so absorbed, and it so startled and shook her, that she never could feel certain whether the cry she heard was of this world or not.  Half-asleep one hears such a cry, and can not tell whether it entered his consciousness by the ear, or through some hidden channel of the soul.  Assured that waking ears heard nothing, he remains, it may be, in equal doubt, whether it came from the other side of life or was the mere cry of a dream.  Before Dorothy was aware of a movement of her will, she was on her feet, and staring from the window.  Something was lying on the grass beyond the garden wall, close to the pond:  it looked like a woman.  She darted from the house, out of the garden, and down the other side of the wall.  When she came nearer she saw it was indeed a woman, evidently insensible.  She was bare-headed.  Her bonnet was floating in