It came at length, the hour of utterance.  And one day, in a praying circle of the women of the church, all were startled by the clear silver tones of one who sat among them and spoke with the unconscious simplicity of an angel child, calling God her Father, and speaking of an ineffable union in Christ, binding all things together in one, and making all complete in Him.  She spoke of a love passing knowledge,—­passing all love of lovers or of mothers,—­a love forever spending, yet never spent,—­a love ever pierced and bleeding, yet ever constant and triumphant, rejoicing with infinite joy to bear in its own body the sins and sorrows of a universe,—­conquering, victorious love, rejoicing to endure, panting to give, and offering its whole self with an infinite joyfulness for our salvation.  And when, kneeling, she poured out her soul in prayer, her words seemed so many winged angels, musical with unearthly harpings of an untold blessedness.  They who heard her had the sensation of rising in the air, of feeling a celestial light and warmth, descending into their souls; and when, rising, she stood silent and with downcast drooping eyelids, there were tears in all eyes, and a hush in all movements as she passed, as if something celestial were passing out.

Miss Prissy came rushing homeward, to hold a private congratulatory talk with the Doctor and Mrs. Scudder, while Mary was tranquilly setting the tea-table and cutting bread for supper.

“To see her now, certainly,” said Miss Prissy, “moving round so thoughtful, not forgetting anything, and doing everything so calm, you wouldn’t ‘a’ thought it could be her that spoke those blessed words and made that prayer!  Well, certainly, that prayer seemed to take us all right up and put us down in heaven! and when I opened my eyes, and saw the roses and asparagus-bushes on the manteltree-piece, I had to ask myself, ‘Where have I been?’ Oh, Miss Scudder, her afflictions have been sanctified to her!—­and really, when I see her going on so, I feel she can’t be long for us.  They say, dying grace is for dying hours; and I’m sure this seems more like dying grace than anything that I ever yet saw.”

“She is a precious gift,” said the Doctor; “let us thank the Lord for his grace through her.  She has evidently had a manifestation of the Beloved, and feedeth among the lilies (Canticles, vi. 3); and we will not question the Lord’s further dispensations concerning her.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Prissy, briskly, “it’s never best to borrow trouble; ‘sufficient unto the day’ is enough, to be sure.—­And now, Miss Scudder, I thought I’d just take a look at that dove-colored silk of yours to-night, to see what would have to be done with it, because I must make every minute tell; and you know I lose half a day every week for the prayer-meeting.  Though I ought not to say I lose it, either; for I was telling Miss General Wilcox I wouldn’t give up that meeting for bags and bags of gold.  She