The kind woman took her at once to a neat little bed-room, and permitted Trot to lie on a mat close to the door of his mistress.

Weary and worn, she gladly went to bed.  Sleep came at last, and the tired, intense state of her mind was lost in slumber.  She dreamt that she was at her home again, and that she was going to marry Clarence.  They were walking to the village church together, over the soft green meadows.  The air was balmy and full of sweetness; the sunshine lay in golden bars at her feet, and her whole soul glowed with happiness, life, and love.  The bells—­her marriage bells—­pealed out joyously on the air, while she turned to Clarence, saying, “I had a terrible dream; I thought you had deserted me.”  Another peal,—­merry and full-then the meadows that were so warm and sunny, grew cold and wet; and a cloud came between her and the golden sun.  The bell rolled forth another peal-it sounded like a knell-and she awoke.

The factory bell was ringing, calling the operatives to labor.

A sweet voice broke on her utter desolation just at that moment, saying: 

“That is the first bell; you will have just time enough to dress and take your breakfast.”

Mechanically she arose, dressed, and forcing back her hot tears, went below, to sit again at the table of one who ever remembered these words:  “As ye have opportunity.”

CHAPTER XV.

There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is life?  What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these best endeavors misunderstood?  Such questions flood the reason at times, and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the busy scene goes on.

Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down, but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain.  The soul feels new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.

This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful, and thoughtful worker.  All along the pathway of life these weary, yet hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for “light, more light.”

In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds.  A sort of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of thought which gave her words at all times such force.  All her best and most earnest endeavors seemed as nought.  Words which she had spoken, warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed, till their real meaning was lost to her.

“Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever,” she said, and her deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.