It was to the credit of Mrs. Stoddard’s breeding that she took no notice of Agatha’s peculiar dress, unsuited as it was to any place but the bedroom, even in the morning.  Mrs. Stoddard herself was neat as a pin in a cotton gown made for utility, not beauty.  She stood for an instant with her clear, untroubled gaze full upon Agatha, then drew forward a chair from its mathematical position against the wall.  When she spoke, her voice was a surprise, it was so low and deep, with a resonance like that of the ’cello.  It was not the voice of a young woman; it was, rather, a rare gift of age, telling how beautiful an old woman’s speech could be.  Moreover, it carried refinement of birth and culture, a beauty of phrase and enunciation, which would have marked her with distinction anywhere.

“How do you do, Miss Redmond?”

Agatha, standing by the table with the cross, made no movement toward the chair.  She was not come face to face with Mrs. Stoddard for the purpose of social visitation, but because, in the warfare of life, she had been sent to the enemy with a message.  That, at least, was Agatha’s point of view.  Officially, she was come to plead with Mrs. Stoddard; personally, she was hot and resentful at her unjust words.  Her reply to her hostess’ greeting was brief and her attitude unbending.

“I have come to ask you, Mrs. Stoddard,” Agatha began, though to her chagrin, she found her voice was unsteady—­“I have come personally to ask you, Mrs. Stoddard, if you will help us in caring for our friend, who is very ill.  Your brother, Doctor Thayer, wishes it.  It is a case of life and death, maybe; and skilful nursing is difficult to find.”

Agatha’s hand, that rested on the table, was trembling by the time she finished her speech; she was vividly conscious of the panic that had come upon her nerves at a fresh realization of the wall of defense and resistance which she was attempting to assail.  It spoke to her from Mrs. Stoddard’s calm, other-worldly eyes, from her serene, deep voice.

“No, Miss Redmond, that work is not for me.”

“But please, Mrs. Stoddard, will you not reconsider your decision?  It is not for myself I ask, but for another—­one who is suffering.”

Mrs. Stoddard’s gaze went past Agatha and rested on the white cross with the inscription, “Brother.”  She slowly shook her head, saying again, “No, that work is not for me.  The Lord does not call me there.”

As the two women stood there, with the funeral cross between them, each with her heart’s burden of griefs, convictions and resentments, each recoiled, sensitively, from the other’s touch.  But life and the burden life imposes were too strong.

“How can yon say, Mrs. Stoddard, ‘that work is not for me,’ when there is suffering you can relieve, sickness that you can cure?  I am asking a hard thing, I know; but we will help to make it as easy as possible for you, and we are in great need.”