The second request which had been on Gatty’s lips being thus forestalled, the girls set forth—without consulting Rhoda, which Gatty was disinclined to do, and which Phoebe fancied that she had done—and reached the Maidens’ Lodge without falling in with any disturbing element, such as either Rhoda or Molly would unquestionably have been. Mrs Dorothy received them in her usual kindly manner, and gave them tea before they entered on the subject of which both the young minds were full. Then Gatty told her story, if very much the same terms as she had given it to Phoebe.
“And I can’t understand Phoebe, Mrs Dolly,” she ended. “She says God has given her Himself; and I cannot make it out. And she says she gives her prayers to Jesus Christ to carry. I don’t know what she means. It sounds good. But I don’t understand it—not one bit.”
Mrs Dorothy came up to where Gatty was sitting, and took the girl’s head between her small, thin hands. It was not a beautiful face; but it was pleasant enough to look on, and would have been more so, but for the discipline which had crushed out of it all natural interest and youthful anticipation, and had left that strange, strained look of care and forced calm upon the white brow.
“Dear child,” she said, gently, “you want rest, don’t you?”
Gatty’s grey eyes filled with tears.
“That is just what I do want, Mrs Dolly,” she said, “somewhere where I could be quiet, and be let alone, and just be myself and not somebody else.”
“Ah, my dear!” said Mrs Dorothy, shaking her head, “you never get let alone in this world. Satan won’t let you alone, if men do. But to be yourself—that is what God wants of you. At least ’tis one half of what He would have; the other half is that you should give yourself to Him.”
“’Tis no good praying,” said Gatty, as before.
“Did the Lord tell you that, my dear?”
“No!” said Gatty, looking up in surprise.