o be writing so familiar-like to one of his comrades.

We've been wondering, Father and I, since you said you
didn't have any real mother of your own, whether you
mightn't like to come home Christmas to us for a little
while and borrow Stephen's mother. I've got a wonderful
hungering in my heart to hear a little more about my boy's
death. I couldn't have borne it just at first, because it
was all so hard to give him up, and he just beginning to
live his earthly life. But now since I can realize him over
by the Father, I would like to know it all. Bonnie says that
you saw Stephen go, and I thought perhaps you could spare a
little time to run out West and tell me.

Of course, if you are busy and have other plans you mustn't
let this bother you. I can wait till some time when you are
coming West and can stop over for a day. But if you care to
come home to Mother Marshall and let her play you are her
boy for a little while, you will make us all very happy.

When Courtland had finished reading the letter he put his head down on
his desk and shed the first tears his eyes had known since he was a
little boy. To have a home and mother-heart open to him like that in the
midst of all his sorrow and perplexity fairly unmanned him. By and by he
lifted up his head and wrote a hearty acceptance of the invitation.

That was in November.

In the middle of December Tennelly and Gila were married.

It was not any of Courtland's choosing that he was best man. He shrank
inexpressibly from even attending that wedding. He tried to arrange for
his Western trip so early as to avoid it. Not that he had any more
personal feeling about Gila, but because he dreaded to see his friend
tied up to such a future. It seemed as if the wedding was Tennelly's
funeral.

But Tennelly had driven up to the seminary on three successive weeks and
begged that Courtland would stand by him.

"You're the only one in the wide world who knows all about it, and
understands, Court," he pleaded, and Courtland, looking at his friend's
wistful face, feeling, as he did, that Tennelly was entering a living
purgatory, could not refuse him.

It did not please Gila to have him take that place in the wedding party.
He knew her shame, and she could not trail her wedding robes as
guilelessly before him now, nor lift her imperious little head, with its
crown of costly blossoms, before the env