he grave of a dear one. If he could not have
prayed for her then, hourly, his heart would have broken.

Mrs. Irving changed her residence, putting many hundred miles between
her new and the old home, so that Vida might begin life anew, as she
phrased it, without embarrassment. In a large hotel in the great
city, with seaside and mountain trips, parties and operas was much
more to Vida's taste than dull life in a quiet parsonage, and she
expected to play the role of a pastor's wife.

With her mother as chaperon she led a gay life, going, coming,
revelling at will in her freedom. As before her marriage, she
attracted much attention. Admired and courted, suitors innumerable
paid her homage. But a positive nature and strong will asserted
themselves here. Only such attentions as befitted a wife to receive
were tolerated. She knew the law did not count her free; and if she
had analyzed her secret heart, there was no true reason why she cared
to be free. No face she met had power to quicken her pulses or
extract from her a second thought. The inner heart had long ago been
pre-empted, but the blind wilful creature knew it not. The face most
often seen in her dreams; the voice that whispered in her ear; the
sad dark eyes that seemed to follow her reproachfully, belonged to
none of the gay gallants about her. Her previous history being
unknown she was a problem in that circle.

There came a change. Mrs. Irving's health began to fail. The eminent
physicians far and near were consulted in vain; and as the symptoms
became more denned and alarming, Vida could not shut her eyes to the
fact that her mother was in a most critical state. She was a devoted
daughter, though the weeds of selfishness, fostered by the mother's
hand, at times almost overtopped filial affection. Now she shut
herself in from society and devoted herself to her mother with
unremitting care. Every whim of the invalid was gratified.

One day, after weary months of suffering, she said: "O Vida dear, I
would pray to die, if I were not afraid."

"Why afraid, mother? I'm sure you've been a member of a church these
many years, and a faithful attendant on its services, and you have
been kind to the poor and such a dear mother," said Vida, caressing
her. "I don't think you need be afraid."

"O child, that will not stand in the great day. Don't mention
anything I've done or been, I beg you," moaned the poor mother. "I've
been nothing but a miserable worldling. Now I'