I think it came to her thus in imperfect language, (not an outward show of tints and lines, as to artists,)--a language, the same that Moses heard when he stood alone, with nothing between his naked soul and God, but the desert and the mountain and the bush that burned with fire.

I think the weak soul of the girl staggered from its dungeon, and groped through these heavy-browed hills, these colour-dreams, through the faces of dog or man upon the street, to find the God that lay behind.
So she saw the world, and its beauty and warmth being divine as near to her, the warmth and beauty became real in her, found their homely reflection in her daily life.

So she knew, too, the Master in whom she believed, saw Him in everything that lived, more real than all beside.
The waiting earth, the prophetic sky, the very worm in the gutter was but a part of this man, something come to tell her of Him,--she dimly felt; though, as I said, she had no words for such a thought.

Yet even more real than this.

There was no pain nor temptation down in those dark cellars where she went that He had not borne,--not one.