ouble with me; but it might make her more content to see me
and to know that I am so well--and happy."

After the letter had been sent, Stanley counted the days anxiously,
and on the big map of Canada that hung on the kitchen wall he followed
its course until it reached Halifax, and then his mind went with it
tossing on the ocean.

"I may get my answer any day after Friday," he said. "Of course I do
not expect it right off--it will take some little time for mother to
speak to father, and, besides, he might not be at home; so I must not
be disappointed if it seems long to wait."

Friday passed and many weeks rolled by, and still Stanley was hopeful.
"They are considering," he said, "and that is so much better than if
they refused; and perhaps they are looking about a boat--I think that
must be what is keeping the letter back. I feel so glad and happy
about it, it seems that permission must be coming."

In a month a bulky parcel came to him by express. It contained a
framed picture of the Good Shepherd carrying the lost lamb in his
arms; a box of hawthorn blossoms, faded but still fragrant, and a book
which gave directions for playing solitaire in one hundred and
twenty-three ways!!

Mrs. Corbett hastened to his room when she heard the cry of pain that
escaped his lips. He stood in the middle of the floor with the book in
his hand. All the boyishness had gone out of his face, which now had
the spent look of one who has had a great fright or suffered great
pain. The book on solitaire had pierced through his cloudy brain with
the thought that his was a solitary part in life, and for a few
moments he went through the panicky grief of the faithful dog who
finds himself left on the shore while his false master sails gayly
away!

"I will be all right directly," he stammered, making a pitiful effort
to control his tears.

Mrs. Corbett politely appeared not to notice, and went hastily
downstairs, and although not accustomed to the use of the pen, yet she
took it in hand and wrote a letter to Stanley's father.

"It is a pity that your poor lad did not inherit some of your hardness
of heart, Mr. Goodman," the letter began, "for if he did he would not
be upstairs now breakin his and sobbin it out of him at your cruel
answer to his natural request that he might go home and see his
mother. But he has a heart of gold wherever he got it I don't know,
and it is just a curse to him to be so constant in his love for home,
when t