Once more under the roof of her dearest friend, Adela was less preoccupied with the sad past which afflicted her mind with the stress of a duty ever harder to perform.  After an hour passed with Stella she could breathe freely the atmosphere of beauty and love.  Elsewhere she too often suffered from a sense of self-reproach; between her and the book in which she tried to lose herself there would come importunate visions of woe, of starved faces, of fierce eyes.  The comfort she enjoyed, the affection and respect with which she was surrounded, were often burdensome to her conscience.  In Stella’s presence all that vanished; listening to Stella’s voice she could lay firm hold on the truth that there is a work in the cause of humanity other than that which goes on so clamorously in lecture halls and at street corners, other than that which is silently performed by faithful hearts and hands in dens of misery and amid the horrors of the lazar-house; the work of those whose soul is taken captive of loveliness, who pursue the spiritual ideal apart from the world’s tumult, and, ever ready to minister in gentle offices, know that they serve best when nearest home.  She was far from spiritual arrogance; her natural mood was a profound humility; she deemed herself rather below than above the active toilers, whose sweat was sacred; but life had declared that such toil was not for her, and from Stella she derived the support which enabled her to pursue her path in peace—­a path not one with Stella’s.  Before that high-throned poet-soul Adela bent in humble reverence.  Between Stella and those toilers, however noble and devoted, there could be no question of comparison.  She was of those elect whose part it is to inspire faith and hope, of those highest but for whom the world would fall into apathy or lose itself among subordinate motives.  Stella never spoke of herself; Adela could not know whether she had ever stood at the severance of ways and made deliberate choice.  Probably not, for on her brow was visible to all eyes the seal of election; how could she ever have doubted the leading of that spirit that used her lips for utterance?

On the morning after her arrival in London Adela took a long journey by herself to the far East End.  Going by omnibus it seemed to her that she was never to reach that street off Bow Road which she had occasion to visit.  But at last the conductor bade her descend, and gave her a brief direction The thoroughfare she sought was poor but not squalid she saw with pleasure that the house of which she had the number in mind was, if anything, cleaner and more homelike in appearance than its neighbours.  A woman replied to her knock.

She asked if Miss Vine was at home.

’Yes, mum; she’s at ‘ome.  Shall I tell her, or will you go up?’

‘I will go up, thank you.  Which room is it?’

‘Second floor front you’ll find her.’

Adela ascended.  Standing at the door she heard the hum of a sewing-machine.  It made her heart sink, so clearly did it speak of incessant monotonous labour.