that very dead hope, He of whom she read to-night stood close, an
infinitely tender Helper, that with the differing human loves she
knew, had loved His mother and Mary. Therefore, a Helper. Now,
struggle as she would for warmth or healthy hopes, the world was
gray and silent. Her defeated woman's nature called it so,
bitterly. Christ was a dim, ideal power, heaven far-off. She
doubted if it held anything as real as that which she had lost.

As if to bring back the old times more vividly to her, there
happened one of those curious little coincidences with which
Fate, we think, has nothing to do. She heard a quick step along
the clay road, and a muddy little terrier jumped up, barking,
beside her. She stopped with a suddenness strange in her slow
movements. "TIGER!" she said, stroking its head with passionate
eagerness. The dog licked her hand, smelt her clothes to know if
she were the same: it was two years since he had seen her. She
sat there, softly stroking him. Presently there was a sound of
wheels jogging down the road, and a voice singing snatches of
some song, one of those cheery street-songs that the boys
whistle. It was a low, weak voice, but very pleasant. Margret
heard it through the dark: she kissed the dog with a strange
paleness on her face, and stood up, quiet, attentive as before.
Tiger still kept licking her hand, as it hung by her side: it was
cold, and trembled as he touched it. She waited a moment, then
pushed him from her, as if his touch, even, caused her to break
some vow. He whined, but she hurried away, not waiting to know
how he came, or with whom. Perhaps, if Dr. Knowles had seen her
face as she looked back at him, he would have thought there were
depths in her nature which his probing eyes had never reached.