The Gold of Chickaree — Part 60

'No,' said Rollo gravely. 'I started a general proposition.'

'Opportunity is only the sand-paper,' said Hazel in her quick way. 'Of no earthly use without a match.'

Rollo's eye danced; nevertheless he answered as demurely as possible—'What do you consider a match?'

'Hidden fire. The complement of the opportunity,—waiting for it,—ready for it. I suppose I meant that—' she said, retreating into herself again.

'I suppose you did,' said Rollo smiling, 'for it is a sharp truth. But Hazel, there is also hidden fire in the good news we carry; and if we cannot make it catch, perhaps God will. Suppose you have nothing to give but the naked truth in your naked hand—won't you take it to the people whose lives it may light up for ever?'

She did not answer him, thinking of the time—not now long past—when her own life had been like midnight. Hazel pushed away her plate, and folding her hands in her lap, sat looking down at them, or at her ring, or possibly seeing neither.

'Olaf,' said Gyda suddenly coming back from the outer door to which she had been summoned, 'somebody is a wanting you down yonder. There's always somebody wanting him now, my lady.'

'Hans Heinrich—he has got hurt in some o' the wheels and things.'

'He is not; but he wants you, my lad, for all that. He's hurt bad; and there's no one to tell 'em what to do; and Lina Heinrich, she sends word to you to come for Christ's sake.'

Dane hesitated but a moment and turned to Wych Hazel.

'You had better lie down and take a sleep. Look after her, Gyda.' And he went off, losing no time.

Gyda had been clearing her table, and as soon as everything was in order she took a chair and sat down opposite Wych Hazel.

'What do they want him for so often, Mrs. Boërresen?'

'Help, my lady. O there's sore need of it, certainly. But these are not his own people; nevertheless there is no help but his for them.'

Hazel mused over the words, her own eyes going off to the fire now. She understood it all well enough,—felt from the depths of her heart what delight it would be to help him, ever so little. And what could he think of her, that she was not more ready? Ah, if he only knew all the history of this year! all the questions and sorrows and perplexities she had been through!—And it was just what she could not tell him, and just what he could never guess. So she gazed at the twinkling fire, shewing brighter and brighter as the afternoon began to die away; until at last, with her head somehow nestled against shawl and cushions in the extemporised easy chair, one sort of weariness claiming the right of way, Wych Hazel went fast asleep; and Gyda might study the fair young face at her leisure. Gyda's own face looked happy the while; and noiselessly she made up the fire, and softly her old lips whispered prayers oftentimes as she moved hither and thither.