Three days after, they all came up to Yerbury. The evening before, Irene Lawrence had gone to Sylvie's room, and found her kneeling by the open window, her face turned heavenward in a wordless prayer for strength. She knelt beside her, she took the passive hands in hers, she even touched her own cold lips to the colder forehead of the other.
"Sylvie,"—the tone still had the awful dreariness of that utter inward living,—"Sylvie, I have been drawn to you in this your anguish by some power quite outside of myself. I think we have always liked each other in a curious way, but we were neither of us sentimental girls. I could not cry over you now, nor kiss you with effusive fondness; but I wish, oh, how passionately I wish, I could save you one pang! I wish I could die in her place! My life is of so little value"—
"I believe God is right," Sylvie answered with a great struggle. "She has used her life so well; she has garnered ripened sheaves of mercy and kindliness and good works. There is not only golden wheat, but the sweetness of rose and violet, the pungent purity and strength of heliotrope, the use, the beauty, every thing. She is ready."
"And I am not worthy to be taken even for a ransom!" said the proud, cold voice, not betraying any inward hurt.
"God does not mean that. You are to shape your life to something better. Irene, did you ever think how easy it might be to die for those we love, but oh, so hard to live for them, not ourselves!"
Irene rose, and stood there like a statue. Sylvie felt for the hand, pressed it to her lips, folded it about her chin in a softly caressing manner. How had Irene become dear to her?
"I am no heroine, Sylvie. I have been tossed up by the breakers of fortune, and am out of joint, broken, bruised, of no avail."
"You can comfort me. You can help to give me strength and sympathy. You can become a warm, living, active woman. There is always room for such in the world, and a work for them to do. God never put an idle or useless thing in the world, much more a human soul; and it must go sadly astray before it comes to despair. Irene, you will not shut your heart again, you will turn its warm side to me, you will take me in, with my great sorrow;" and she buried her face in the other's dress, with a shivering sob.
"I will do—what you wish. I am physically strong again. Let me help you—anywhere, anyhow. You were so good and patient through my dreary time."
Then she stole softly away, astonished at herself. Within was still the coldness of Alpine glaciers. But oh, if she might be warmed!