child, a tiny girl with a bunch of wayside
flowers in her fat, moist hand.

Lynda paused and whispered something to the little maid and then, as she
went forward, Truedale noticed that the child was beside Lynda, a
shabby, wee maid of honour!

It was very quaint, very touchingly pretty, but the scene overawed the
baby and when the last words were said and Truedale had kissed his wife
they noticed that the little one was in tears. Lynda bent over her full
of tenderness.

"What is it, dear?" she whispered.

"I--I want--my mother!"

"So do I, sweetheart; so do I!"

The wet eyes were raised in wonder.

"And where is your mother, baby?"

"Up--up--the hill!"

"Why, so is mine, but you will find yours--first. Don't cry, sweetheart.
See, here is a little ring. It is too large for you now, but let your
mother keep it, and when you are big enough, wear it--and remember--me."

Dazzled by the gift, the child smiled up radiantly. "Good-bye," she
whispered, "I'll tell mother--and I won't forget."

Later that same golden day, when Kendall bade his sister and Truedale
good-bye at the station he had the look on his face that he used to have
when, as a child, he was wont to wonder why he had to be brave because
he was a boy.

It made Lynda laugh, even while a lump came in her throat. Then, as in
the old days, she sought to recompense him, without relenting as to the
code.

"Of course you'll miss us, dear old fellow, but we'll soon be back
and"--she put her lips to his ear and whispered--"there's the little
sister of the Morrells; play with her until we come home."

There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, and
cause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn't directing
affairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened,
those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they were
for early June. And then there was a moon for a little while--a calm,
wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like a
benediction. After that there were stars--millions of them--each in its
place surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly.
Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, at
night, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definite
destination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day's dole
with joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthy
weariness.

Only once d