“It is all your plan, Hazel.  I think he would see that.”

“And you are willing, if he doesn’t care?”

“I did not quite say that.  It would be a good deal to think of.”

“Then I’ll wait till you’ve thought,” said clear-headed little Hazel.

“But it fits right on.  I can see that.  And Miss Craydocke said things would, after we had begun.”

Mrs. Ripwinkley took it into her thoughts, and carried it about with her for days, and considered it; asking herself questions.

Was it going aside in search of an undertaking that did not belong to her?

Was it bringing home a care, a responsibility, for which they were not fitted,—­which might interfere with the things they were meant, and would be called, to do?

There was room and opportunity, doubtless, for them to do something; Mrs. Ripwinkley had felt this; she had not waited for her child to think of it for her; she had only waited, in her new, strange sphere, for circumstances to guide the way, and for the Giver of all circumstance to guide her thought.  She chose, also, in the things that would affect her children’s life and settle duties for them, to let them grow also to those duties, and the perception of them, with her.  To this she led them, by all her training and influence; and now that in Hazel, her child of quick insight and true instincts, this influence was bearing fruit and quickening to action, she respected her first impulses; she believed in them; they had weight with her, as argument in themselves.  These impulses, in young, true souls, freshly responding, are, she knew, as the proof-impressions of God’s Spirit.

Yet she would think; that was her duty; she would not do a thing hastily, or unwisely.

Sulie Praile had been a good while, now, at the Home.

A terrible fall, years ago, had caused a long and painful illness, and resulted in her present helplessness.  But above those little idle, powerless limbs, that lay curled under the long, soft skirt she wore, like a baby’s robe, were a beauty and a brightness, a quickness of all possible motion, a dexterous use of hands, and a face of gentle peace and sometimes glory, that were like a benediction on the place that she was in; like the very Holy Ghost in tender form like a dove, resting upon it, and abiding among them who were there.

In one way, it would hardly be so much a giving as a taking, to receive her in.  Yet there was care to assume, the continuance of care to promise or imply; the possibility of conflicting plans in much that might be right and desirable that Mrs. Ripwinkley should do for her own.  Exactly what, if anything, it would be right to undertake in this, was matter for careful and anxious reflection.

The resources of the Home were not very large; there were painful cases pressing their claims continually, as fast as a little place was vacated it could be filled; was wanted, ten times over; and Sulie Praile had been there a good while.  If somebody would only take her, as people were very ready to take—­away to happy, simple, comfortable country homes, for mere childhood’s sake—­the round, rosy, strong, and physically perfect ones!  But Sulie must be lifted and tended; she must keep somebody at home to look after her; no one could be expected to adopt a child like that.