Men may create philosophies, they may turn the Gospel itself into a cold abstraction, but the practical truth remains that the Christ who saves, comforts, and lifts the intolerable burden of sorrow or of sin, comes now as of old—­comes as a living, loving, personal presence, human in sympathy, divine in power.  As Mildred had said, our need and our consciousness of it form our strongest claim upon Him and the best preparation for Him.

Clara was proving the truth of her words.  Life could never be to her again merely a bitter, sullen struggle for bread.  A great hope was dawning, and though but a few rays yet quivered through the darkness, they were the earnest of a fuller light.

Before midnight Mr. Jocelyn joined the watchers, and seated himself unobtrusively in a dusky corner of the room.  Clara crouched on the floor beside her mother, her head resting on the bed, and her hand clasping the thin fingers of the dying woman.  She insisted on doing everything the poor creature required, which was but little, for it seemed that life would waver out almost imperceptibly.  Mildred sat at the foot of the bed, where her father could see her pure profile in the gloom.  To his opium-kindled imagination it seemed to have a radiance of its own, and to grow more and more luminous until, in its beauty and light, it became like the countenance of an accusing angel; then it began to recede until it appeared infinitely far away.  “Millie,” he called, in deep apprehension.

“What is it, papa?” she asked, springing to his side and putting her hand on his shoulder.

“Oh!” he said, shudderingly.  “I had such a bad dream!  You seemed fading away from me, till I could no longer see your face.  It was so horribly real!”

She came and sat beside him, and held his hand in both of hers.  “That’s right,” he remarked; “now my dreams will be pleasant.”

“You didn’t seem to be asleep, papa,” said the girl, in some surprise; “indeed, you seemed looking at me fixedly.”

“Then I must have been asleep with my eyes open,” he answered with a trace of embarrassment.

“Poor papa, you are tired, and it’s very, very kind of you to come and stay with me, but I wasn’t afraid.  Clara says it’s a respectable house, and the people, though very poor, are quiet and well behaved.  Now that you have seen that we are safe, please go home and rest,” and she coaxed until he complied, more from fear that he would betray himself than from any other motive.

In the deep hush that falls on even a great city before the early life of the next day begins, Mrs. Bute opened her eyes and called, “Clara!”

“Right here, momsy, dear, holding your hand.”

“It’s strange—­I can’t see you—­I feel so much better, too—­sort of rested.  It does—­seem now—­as if I—­might get—­a little rest.  Don’t wake me—­child—­to give me—­anything—­and rest yourself.”

She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes, and very soon Clara could never wake her again.  Mildred took the head of the orphan into her lap, and the poor girl at last sobbed herself to sleep.