To Him, too, life must have been sweet with its noble work, its loving comradeship.

Even from Him the words had to be wrung: "Thy will, not Mine, be done." She whispered them at last.

Not bravely, at all.

Feebly, haltingly, with a little sob: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as if that could help her.
She thought that even then God might reconsider it--see her point of view.

Perhaps He would send her a sign.
The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her; then went to sleep again.