Were all the mistakes—­the sins, even—­for the very sake of the pure blessedness and the more perfect knowledge of the setting right?

Desire began to think that Uncle Oldways’ theology might help her.

What she said to him now was,—­

“I want to do something.  I should like to go and live with Luclarion, I think, down there in Neighbor Street.  I should like to take hold of some other lives,—­little children’s, perhaps,”—­and here Desire’s voice softened,—­“that don’t seem to have any business to be, either, and see if I could help or straighten anything.  Then I feel is if I should know.”

“Then—­according to the Scripture—­you would know.  But—­that’s undertaking a good deal.  Luclarion Grapp has got there; but she has been fifty-odd years upon the road.  And she has been doing real things all the time.  That’s what has brought her there.  You can’t boss the world’s hard jobs till you’ve been a journeyman at the easy ones.”

“And I’ve missed my apprenticeship!” said Desire, with changed voice and face, falling back into her disheartenment again.

“No!” Uncle Oldways almost shouted.  “Not if you come to the Master who takes in the eleventh hour workers.  And it isn’t the eleventh hour with you,—­child!”

He dwelt on that word “child,” reminding her of her short mistaking and of the long retrieval.  Her nineteen years and the forever and ever contrasted themselves before her suddenly, in the light of hope.

She turned sharply, though, to look at her duty.  Her journeyman’s duty of easy things.

“Must I go to Europe with my mother?” she asked again, the conversation coming round to just that with which it had begun.

“I’ll talk with your mother,” said Uncle Oldways, getting up and looking into his hat, as a man always does when he thinks of putting it on presently.  “Good-night.  I suppose you are tired enough now.  I’ll come again and see you.”

Desire stood up and gave him her hand.

“I thank you, Uncle Titus, with all my heart.”

He did not answer her a word; but he knew she meant it.

He did not stop that night to see his niece.  He went home, to think it over.  But as he walked down Borden Street, swinging his big stick, he said to himself,—­

“Next of kin!  Old Marmaduke Wharne was right.  But it takes more than the Family Bible to tell you which it is!”

Two days after, he had a talk with Mrs. Ledwith which relieved both their minds.

From the brown-and-apricot drawing-room,—­from among the things that stood for nothing now, and had never stood for home,—­he went straight up, without asking, and knocked at Desire’s third-story door.

“Come in!” she said, without a note of expectation in her voice.