Homeless and friendless; where would the morrow find her?  God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, and sent his ministering angel in his own good time.  Dawn had decided, on the way to the grave, to take her home, and gave the hackman directions to drive to the station.

The rain drops began to patter on the pavement, the air grew chill and heavy, adding to the gloom of the occasion, and it was a relief to both to step into the cars, and see faces lighted up by hopes, going to life’s experiences, rather than floating away from them.

There was no action in the dumb soul, which sat beside Dawn.  She had passed beyond question and agitation of thought.  It was that simple quiescence which every soul feels when the curtain of sorrow has fallen, even amid scenes of hope and happiness; but to one whom hope had long since forsaken, and life’s bitter experiences been often repeated, there could be no projection of self, nought but the Now, divested of all earthly interest.

The train rushed past hills, through valleys, fields and woods, like a thing of life and intelligence, and stopped at the station, where a carriage was waiting.  Mechanically Margaret followed, and Martin, at Dawn’s gesture, lifted her into the carriage.  The smoke of the receding train rose and curled among the trees, assuming fantastic shapes, while the shrill whistle caused the cattle to race over the fields, and the lithe-winged warblers to recede into the forests.  Just so does some great din of the world, falling on our ears, send us to our being’s centre for rest.

CHAPTER XXIV.

She laid still and pale upon the bed, while Dawn moved, or rather floated, about the room.  The tide of life was fast ebbing; the last grief had sundered the long tension, and soon her freed spirit would be winging its way heavenward.

“Shall I sit by you and read?” asked Dawn, as the hand on the clock pointed to the hour of midnight.  No sleep had come to the weary eyes, which now turned so thankfully and trustingly to the benefactor of the outcast.

In tones sweetly modulated to the time and state, she commenced reading that comforting psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd.”

At its close, Margaret was asleep, and Dawn laid back in her chair, rested, and watched till morning.

“Where am I?  What has happened?” were the questions expressed on the features of the poor girl, when she awoke, and her spirit wandered back from dreamland.

It was some time before she could take up the thread of joy which was now woven into her last earthly days, and forget the dark, sorrowful past.  The old years seemed to her then like musty volumes, bound by a golden chord.  The present peace compensated her for the long season of unrest, and in its atmosphere her soul gathered its worn, scattered forces, and prepared itself to leave the old and to take on the new form.