“It is the minister,” she answered in a low voice, curtseying.  “I was moved to come here this morning, sir, and see to things.  It was time to be brushing up a little, I thought.  It is a month now since the last.”

“I will take down the old boughs then, and garnish the walls with new ones.  And have you looked at the lamp too, Mary?”

“It is trimmed, sir,” said the woman; and the minister’s readiness to assist her drew forth the confession:  “I was thinking on my bed in the night-watches that it must be done.  There will one be going home soon.  And it may be myself, sir.  I could not have been easy if I had not come up to tidy the house.”

Having finished her task, which was a short one and easily performed, the woman now waited to watch the minister as he selected cedar boughs and wove them into wreaths, and suspended them from the walls and rafters of the little room; and it comforted the simple soul when, standing in the doorway, the good man lifted his eyes toward heaven and said in the words of the church litany: 

From error and misunderstanding, From the loss of our glory in Thee, From self-complacency, From untimely projects, From needless perplexity, From the murdering spirit and devices of Satan, From the influence of the spirit of this world, From hypocrisy and fanaticism, From the deceitfulness of sin, From all sin, Preserve us, gracious Lord and God—­

and devoutly she joined in with him in the solemn responsive cry.

It was very evident that the minister’s work that day was not to be performed in his silent home among his books.

On the brightest day let the sun become eclipsed, and how the earth will pine!  What melancholy will pervade the busy streets, the pleasant fields and woods!  How disconsolately the birds will seek their mates and their nests!

The children came together, but many a half hour passed during which the shadow of an Unknown seemed to come between them and their teacher.  The bright soul, was she too suffering from an eclipse?  Does it happen that all souls, even the most valiant, most loving, least selfish, come in time to passes so difficult that, shrinking back, they say, “Why should I struggle to gain the other side?  What is there worth seeking?  Better to end all here.  This life is not worth enduring”?  And yet, does it also come to pass as certainly that these valiant, unselfish, loving ones will struggle, fight, climb, wade, creep on, on while the breath of life remains in them, and never surrender?  It seemed as if Sister Benigna had arrived at a place where her baffled spirit stood still and felt its helplessness.  Could she do nothing for Elise, the dear child for whose happiness she would cheerfully give her life, and not think the price too dear?

By and by the children were aware that Sister Benigna had come again among them:  the humblest little flower lifted up its head, and the smallest bird began to chirp and move about and smooth its wings.