a comforter," whispered the inward voice.
"But she might consider me an intruder, trying to pry into her private affairs, forcing a friendship upon her which she has never sought—and she so much older than I," was the answering thought. "And she is only a governess. Aunt Belle evidently considers her quite beneath her friendship, and might be displeased if I put her on an equality with myself."
But Mildred blushed to find herself influenced by such a motive. She too might be a governess some day and she would be none the less a lady; it was an honorable and useful calling; and it ought to be considered far more creditable to earn one's bread thus than to be willing to live upon the labor of others.
"No," she exclaimed half aloud, closing her book and pushing it from her, "that shall not hinder me! but ought I to go?"
Dropping her face into her hands, she sent up a silent petition. "Lord, show me! I desire to acknowledge thee in all my ways, and I know thou wilt fulfill thy gracious promise to direct my paths."
Then she tried to put herself in Miss Worth's place. How utterly lonely the poor governess was among them all! among, and yet not of them. Mrs. Dinsmore would as soon have thought of sympathizing with an automaton as with any of the human creatures employed in her service. Her domestics were comfortably fed and clothed; Miss Worth's liberal salary was always punctually paid; and what more could any of them ask?
As Mildred mentally reviewed the events of the past weeks she realized as never before how entirely apart from them all this one member of the family circle had been—her presence ignored in their familiar chat—except when it related in some way to her duties—her wishes, taste, convenience never consulted, no interest taken in her welfare, no inquiries regarding her health or happiness or as to whether her letters—usually handed to her at the breakfast-table when the others received theirs—brought good news or ill.
Ah, now it came to Mildred's recollection that that morning's mail brought a letter for Miss Worth; and had she not looked a little paler than her wont at dinner? and were there not traces of tears about her eyes?
Her hesitation was at an end. She was quite sure that if bad news had come to her she would be glad to have the sympathy of even a child, or a dumb animal; and only waiting to ask for wisdom to do and say the right thing, she rose and went out into the hall.
The stage had just driven up to the door, and the sounds coming from below told of the arrival of the expected guests, gay, girlish voices mingling with those of her aunt, uncle and cousins.
She lingered a moment thinking how pleasant it would be should those girls prove congenial companions to her, then going to Miss Worth's door she tapped lightly on it.
A step came slowly across the room and the door opened.
"Excuse me," Mildred said, blushing and hesitating, "I do not wish to intrude, but I thought you looked sad and had perhaps heard ill news; might be homesick, in need of a friend even if it were one who had only sympathy to offer."
"Come in, won't you?
"It is very, very kind, Miss Keith; I did not expect it; and—and I do want a friend," was answered in hurried, tremulous tones, as Miss Worth stepped back to allow her visitor to pass in, then closed the door and set a chair for her near the fire.
A writing desk stood open on the table, an unfinished letter lying upon it.
"I'm afraid I have disturbed you," Mildred said, glancing at them. "You are busy?"
"No, I found I could not say what I wished, or perhaps did not know what I wanted to say," the governess answered with a dreary sigh.
Silence fell between them for some moments, Miss Worth, who had resumed her seat, gazing abstractedly into the fire, while Mildred was trying to think what to say, and silently asking to be directed. But she was not the first to speak. "Does life ever seem to you a weary road to travel, Miss Keith? A burden that you would be glad to lay down forever?" asked the governess. "But I forget. You are so young, so happy, that you can know nothing of such an experience. At your age I was gay and light-hearted too; as well I might be—at home in my father's house and abundantly supplied with comforts and luxuries without thought or care of mine. Ah, times are sadly changed with me and all who are nearest and dearest to me. But excuse me! I have no right to obtrude my private griefs upon you."
"Please don't feel so," Mildred said, sympathetic tears springing to her eyes. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you! how I would like to comfort you! and I know it is sometimes a relief and comfort just to pour out our sorrows to a fellow creature. And O, Miss Worth, I wish you knew what a comfort it is to tell them all to Jesus!" she added low and feelingly.
"Is it? Do you think he can hear? that he listens? that he cares?"
The look that accompanied the questions was half eager, half skeptical, and full of unexpressed longing.
"I have not the least doubt of it," Mildred answered with earnest conviction in her tones. "'God over all blessed forever,' he is everywhere present. He has, as he himself declared, all power given unto him in heaven and in earth; and he is so full of love and compassion that he deems nothing that concerns his children, one way or another, too small for his attention. He would not have even the little children turned away when the parents brought them to him, and he cares for the sparrows.
"'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.'"
"But I am not one of his children;" sighed the governess. "I have paid no attention to these things, Miss Mildred; I did not seek him in my days of prosperity, and I cannot expect him to care for me now in my adversity."
"But he is so loving and compassionate, so ready to forgive. He proclaims himself 'the Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin.'
"'Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.' Jesus said, 'Him that cometh to me I will in nowise cast out.' You say you want a friend, Miss Worth, and there is none other that can compare with Jesus in love and tenderness, in power and willingness to do all you need."
"A friend," repeated Miss Worth absently, more as if thinking aloud than talking to her visitor, "yes, that is what I need; what I have been longing for for days and weeks; more especially to-night; but," and she turned her face abruptly toward Mildred, while her voice took a touchingly pathetic tone, "I know not how or where to find the One you speak of; nor can I believe that he would receive me if I did; that he would care to help and comfort me. Why should he?"
"I don't know, except that he is so good, so kind, so loving!" Mildred said, her eyes shining. "But dare you doubt his word? the word of him who tells us that he himself is the truth?"
"Does he say that?"
"Yes, 'I am the way and the truth and the life.' Oh, believe his love—the love of Christ which passeth knowledge! 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his son to be the propitiation for our sins."
"Ah, but am I included in that word 'our'?"
"'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' Could invitations be more
