“O Jesus Christ!  I am deaf and blind;
Nothing comes through into my mind,
I only am not dumb: 
Although I see Thee not, nor hear,
I cry because Thou mayst be near
O Son of Mary! come!”

Do you think a girl of seventeen may not be feeling out into the spiritual dark,—­may not be stretching helpless hands, vaguely, toward the Hands that help?  Desire Ledwith laid the book down again, with a great swelling breath coming up slowly out of her bosom, and with a warmth of tears in her earnest little eyes.  And Uncle Titus Oldways sat there among his papers, and never moved, or seemed to look, but saw it all.

He never said a word to her himself; it was not Uncle Titus’s way to talk, and few suspected him of having anything to say in such matters; but he went to Friend Froke and asked her,—­

“Haven’t you got any light that might shine a little for that child, Rachel?”

And the next Sunday, in the forenoon, Desire came in; came in, without knowing it, for her little light.

She had left home with the family on their way to church; she was dressed in her buff silk pongee suit trimmed with golden brown bands and quillings; she had on a lovely new brown hat with tea roses in it; her gloves and boots were exquisite and many buttoned; Agatha and Florence could not think what was the matter when she turned back, up Dorset Street, saying suddenly, “I won’t go, after all.”  And then she had walked straight over the hill and down to Greenley Street, and came in upon Rachel, sitting alone in a quiet gray parlor that was her own, where there were ferns and ivies in the window, and a little canary, dressed in brown and gold like Desire herself, swung over them in a white wire cage.

When Desire saw how still it was, and how Rachel Froke sat there with her open window and her open book, all by herself, she stopped in the doorway with a sudden feeling of intrusion, which had not occurred to her as she came.

“It’s just what I want to come into; but if I do, it won’t be there.  I’ve no right to spoil it.  Don’t mind, Rachel.  I’ll go away.”

She said it softly and sadly, as if she could not help it, and was turning back into the hall.

“But I do mind,” said Rachel, speaking quickly.  “Thee will come in, and sit down.  Whatever it is thee wants, is here for thee.  Is it the stillness?  Then we will be still.”

“That’s so easy to say.  But you can’t do it for me. You will be still, and I shall be all in a stir.  I want so to be just hushed up!”

“Fed, and hushed up, in somebody’s arms, like a baby.  I know,” said Rachel Froke.

“How does she know?” thought Desire; but she only looked at her with surprised eyes, saying nothing.

“Hungry and restless; that’s what we all are,” said Rachel Froke, “until”—­

“Well,—­until?” demanded the strange girl, impetuously, as Rachel paused.  “I’ve been hungry ever since I was born, mother says.”