Camilla Cain.

She was from Baltimore, and had the fair face and gentle voice peculiar
to most Baltimore women. Her organization was delicate but elastic--one
of the sort that bends easily, but is hard to break. In her eyes was
that look of wistful sadness so often seen in holy women of her type.
Timid as a fawn, in the class-meeting she spoke of her love to Jesus and
delight in his service in a voice low and a little hesitating, but with
strangely thrilling effect. The meetings were sometimes held in her own
little parlor in the cottage on Dupont street, and then we always felt
that we had met where the Master himself was a constant and welcome
guest. She was put into the crucible. For more than fifteen years she
suffered unceasing and intense bodily pain. Imprisoned in her sick
chamber, she fought her long, hard battle. The pain-distorted limbs lost
their use, the patient face waxed more wan, and the traces of agony were
on it always; the soft, loving eyes were often tear washed. The fires
were hot, and they burned on through the long, long years without
respite. The mystery of it all was too deep for me; it was too deep for
her. But somehow it does seem that the highest suffer most:

The sign of rank in Nature Is capacity for pain, And the anguish of the
singer Makes the sweetness of the strain.

The victory of her faith was complete. If the inevitable why? sometimes
was in her thought, no shadow of distrust ever fell upon her heart. Her
sick-room was the quietest, brightest spot in all the city. How often
did I go thither weary and faint with the roughness of the way, and