Perhaps He, too, had felt that His duty still lay among the
people--teaching, guiding, healing them. To Him, too, life must have
been sweet with its noble work, its loving comradeship. Even from Him
the words had to be wrung: "Thy will, not Mine, be done."
She whispered them at last. Not bravely, at all. Feebly, haltingly,
with a little sob: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as if
that could help her.
She thought that even then God might reconsider it--see her point of
view. Perhaps He would send her a sign.
The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her;
then went to sleep again. A prowling cat paused to rub itself against
her foot, but meeting no response, passed on. Through an open window,
somewhere near, filtered the sound of a child's low whimpering.
It was daylight when she awoke. She was cold and her limbs ached. Slowly
her senses came back to her. The seat opposite was vacant. The gas lamp
showed but a faint blue point of flame. Her dress was torn, her boots
soiled and muddy. Strands of her hair had escaped from underneath her
hat.
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