But oh, if I could
only do something for her--give her some little pleasure!
It would be such a delight."
When the Old Lady happened to go into her spare room that evening,
she saw from it a light shining through a gap in the trees on the hill.
She knew that it shone from the Spencers' spare room. So it was
Sylvia's light. The Old Lady stood in the darkness and watched it
until it went out--watched it with a great sweetness breathing in
her heart, such as risen from old rose-leaves when they are stirred.
She fancied Sylvia moving about her room, brushing and braiding
her long, glistening hair--laying aside her little trinkets
and girlish adornments--making her simple preparations for sleep.
When the light went out the Old Lady pictured a slight white figure
kneeling by the window in the soft starshine, and the Old Lady
knelt down then and there and said her own prayers in fellowship.
She said the simple form of words she had always used; but a new spirit
seemed to inspire them; and she finished with a new petition--"Let
me think of something I can do for her, dear Father--some little,
little thing that I can do for her."
The Old Lady had slept in the same room all her life--the one
looking north into the spruces--and loved it; but the next day
she moved into the spare room without a regret.
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