All that her mother-in-law had said came back to her memory.  Had John taken that one step away?  Would he never take it back to her?  She was overwhelmed with a climbing sorrow that would not down.  Yet she asked with assumed indifference,

“Was the Master well this morning?”

“It’s likely, ma’am.  He wasn’t complaining.  That isn’t Master’s way.”

Then she thought of her own complaining, and was silent.

After breakfast she went through the house and found every room impossible.  She flooded them with fresh air and sunshine, but she could not empty them of phantoms and memories and with a little half-uttered cry she put on her hat and went out.  Surely in the oak wood she would find the complete solitude she must have.  She passed rapidly through the band of ash-trees that shielded the house on the north and was directly in the soft, deep shadow of umbrageous oaks a century old.  They whispered among themselves at her coming, they fanned her with a little cool wind from the encircling mountains, and she threw herself gratefully down upon the soft, warm turf at their feet.

Then all the sorrow of the past months overwhelmed her.  She wept as if her heart would break and there was a great silence all around which the tinkle of a little brook over its pebbly bed only seemed to intensify.  Presently she had no more tears left and she dried her eyes and sat upright and was suddenly aware of a great interior light, pitiless and clear beyond all dayshine.  And in it she saw herself with a vision more than mortal.  It was an intolerable vision, but during it there was formed in her soul the faculty of prayer.

Out of the depths of her shame and sorrow she called upon God and He heard her.  She told Him all her selfishness and sin and urged by some strong spiritual necessity, begged God’s forgiveness and help with the conquering prayers that He himself gave her.  “Cast me not from Thy Presence,” she cried.  “Take not Thy holy spirit from me,” and then there flashed across her trembling soul the horror and blackness of darkness in which souls “cast from God’s presence” must dwell forever.  Prostrate in utter helplessness, she cast herself upon the Eternal Father’s mercy.  If He would forgive her selfish rebellion against the removal of Martha, if He would give her back the joy of the first years of her espousal to her husband, if He would only forgive her, she could do without all the rest—­and then in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, she knew she was forgiven.  An inexpressible glory filled her soul, washed clean of sin.  Love beyond words, peace and joy beyond expression, surrounded her.  She stood up and lifted her face and hands to heaven and cried out like one in a swoon of triumph,

“Thou hast called me by my name!  I am Thine!”