fall, they must go on ever and ever seeking truth in their own way.
The world is infinitely the better through them. But their own way is
hard and lonely.

She must go out. She must have education. She must have a chance to
face life and wrest its lessons from it in her own way. It did not
promise happiness for her. But she could go no other way. For hers was
the high, stony way of those who demand more than jealous life is
ready to give.

The Bishop only knew that he had this night given a promise which had
sent a man contentedly on his way. Somehow, God would show him how
best to keep that promise.

And when they halloed at Father Ponfret's house in French Village he
had gotten no farther than that.

Tom Lansing lay in dignified state upon his couch. Clean white sheets
had been draped over the skins of the couch. The afternoon sun looking
in through the west window picked out every bare thread of his service
coat and glinted on the polished brass buttons. His bayonet was slung
into the belt at his side.

Ruth Lansing sat mute in her grief at the head of the couch, listening
to the comments and stumbling condolences of neighbours from the high
hills and the lower valleys. They were good, kindly people, she knew.
But why, why, must every one of them repeat that clumsy, monotonous
lie-- How natural he looked!

He did not. He did not. He did _not_ look natural. How could her Daddy
Tom look natural, when he lay there all still and cold, and would not
speak to his Ruth!

He was dead. And what was death-- And why? _Why?_

Who had ordered this? And _why?_

And still they came with that set, borrowed phrase--the only thing
they could think to say--upon their lips.

Out in Tom Lansing's workshop on the horse-barn floor, Jacque Lafitte,
the wright, was nailing soft pine boards together.

Ruth could not stand it. Why could they not leave Daddy Tom to her?
She wanted to ask him things. She knew that she could make him
understand and answer.

She slipped away from the couch and out of the house. At the corner of
the house her dog joined her and together they circled away from the
horse-barn and up the slope of the hill to where her father had been
working yesterday.

She found her father's cap where it had been left in her fright of
yesterday, and sat down fondling it in her hands. The dog came and
slid his nose along her dress until he managed to snuggle into the cap
between her hands.

So Jeffrey Whiting f