to hear the words:

"Oh, God, our help in ages past
Our strength in years to come,
Our refuge from the stormy blast,
And our eternal borne."

Sure enough! God our "strength in years to come," even though they be
wearisome years. A little "stormy blast" had swept over her. She
would fly to her Refuge, and then the "eternal home." What if this
life was not just as we would have it, the next one will be; and Edna
"laid her down in peace and slept."

"Heigh ho!" said Mr. Winters one bright day, "whom have we here?" A
merry jingle of bells suddenly stopped and two gray horses and a
handsome sleigh stood in front of the gate. "Mr. Monteith, eh? He has
most likely come to take me out riding," he said, with a twinkle in
his eye.

"Miss Edna, will you ride?" Mr. Monteith asked when the greetings
were over. Edna's eyes sought her mother's for reply. It was not
every gentleman, be he ever so great and rich, that this primitive,
independent father and mother would entrust with their treasure,
their one ewe lamb.

"Yes. Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before
dark?"

"Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?" he laughingly
asked. The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly
over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to
flying. They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met
Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her
side: "Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?" Then their route
stretched many miles out into the quiet country. The journey was
long, but not tedious. It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept
time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells--the old musical,
mysterious words that established a covenant between those two,
needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make
binding and never-ending.

Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a
heart--at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even
Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her
sorrow. To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so
that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might
possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks
and jewels and laces that his money would buy. She had no heart
herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for
one. Paulin