An old woman wept in an unhealthy room. It was night-time, but night without moon or stars, and a troubled silence kept her company.
Suddenly—uneasily—the rusty door of her hovel opened, and a gust of wind blew her rags about her, and she shivered, and, looking up, saw a radiant figure at her side.
"What do you want here?" she asked at last, Ending it difficult to speak.
"O, so many things!" smiled the child.
"Leave me in peace. I want to be alone.
Why are you come here to disturb me?"
"I am so sorry for you," answered the maiden.
"Whence came you?" questioned the old woman, without looking up.
"From God's Garden of Love," whispered the little one, kneeling.
"I am dreaming," thought the woman to herself. "I am too old to entertain such folly. I will shut the door that the wind has loosened."
But the child laid her golden head on the nerveless old hands, and looked up with wide eyes of love and sympathy.
"I am Love," she murmured softly, passing her lips along the furrowed cheeks of the lonely loveless woman.
Holding the hand of the child they two passed out side by side into the living sunlight.