“Is not the laborer worthy of his hire?” Edna felt that her wages were munificent indeed; that her coffers were filling, and though the “Thank God!” was not audible, the great joy in her uplifted eyes attracted the attention of the pastor, who had been silently watching her, and he laid his hand on hers.

“What is it, my dear?”

“The reward God has given me!”

She read aloud the contents of the letter, and there was a brief silence, broken at last by Mr. Hammond.

“Edna, my child, are you really happy?”

“So happy that I believe the wealth of California could not buy this sheet of paper, which assures me that I have been instrumental in bringing sunshine to a darkened household; in calling the head of a family from haunts of vice and midnight orgies back to his wife and children; back to the shrine of prayer at his own hearthstone!  I have not lived in vain, for through my work a human soul has been brought to Jesus, and I thank God that I am accounted worthy to labor in my Lord’s vineyard!  Oh!  I will wear that happy wife’s blessing in my inmost heart, and like those old bells in Cambridgeshire, inscribed, ‘Pestem fungo!  Sabbata pango!’ it shall ring a silvery chime, exorcising all gloom, and loneliness, and sorrow.”

The old man’s eyes filled as he noted the radiance of the woman’s lovely face.

“You have indeed cause for gratitude and great joy, as you realize all the good you are destined to accomplish, and I know the rapture of saving souls, for, through God’s grace, I believe I have snatched some from the brink of ruin.  But, Edna, can the triumph of your genius, the applause of the world, the approval of conscience, even the assurance that you are laboring successfully for the cause of Christ—­can all these things satisfy your womanly heart—­your loving, tender heart?  My child, there is a dreary look sometimes in your eyes, that reveals loneliness, almost weariness of life.  I have studied your countenance closely when it was in repose; I read it I think without errors; and as often as I hear your writings praised, I recall those lines, written by one of the noblest of your own sex: 

          ’To have our books
   Appraised by love, associated with love,
   While we sit loveless! is it hard, you think? 
   At least, ‘tis mournful.’

Edna, are you perfectly contented with your lot?”

A shadow drifted slowly over the marble face, and though it settled on no feature, the whole countenance was changed.

“I can not say that I am perfectly content, and yet I would not exchange places with any woman I know.”

“Do you never regret a step which you took one evening, yonder in my church?”

“No, sir, I do not regret it.  I often thank God that I was able to obey my conscience and take that step.”

“Suppose that in struggling up the steep path of duty one soul needs the encouragement, the cheering companionship which only one other human being can give?  Will the latter be guiltless if the aid is obstinately withheld?”