mother to believe that God would damn the child whom she herself
was forced, out of the fulness of her undying love, to take back
into her house and into her heart?

As the minister and Mrs. Stott sat down in the kitchen, the poor
woman, in the depths of her despair, again raised her eager face
and asked:

'But yo' durnd think Amanda's damned, dun yo'?'

'No, I do not, Mrs. Stott.'

This was too much for the mother; and now that the highest
passions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom she
looked up to as the prophet of God, she felt her girl was safe.
The fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears of
joy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now love
God because God had spared to her, and to Himself, her only child.

'But, Mr. Penrose, Amanda says _it's all dark_. Dun yo' think yo'
could lift th' claads a bit?'

'Well, we'll do our best; but to the One who loves her the
darkness and the light are both alike.'

And with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to where
the sick girl lay.

Mr. Penrose had often heard of Amanda Stott, and of that face of
hers which had been both her glory and her shame. Now, as he