ould be getting of the real joy of Christmas! How little he
would understand the wonderful peace that settled down in the heart of
his friend when, later, they all knelt in the firelight, and Father
Marshall prayed, as if he were talking to One who stood there close
beside him, whose companionship had been a life experience.

There were so many pictures that Courtland had to carry back with him to
the seminary. Bonnie in the kitchen, with a long-sleeved, high-necked
gingham apron on, frying doughnuts or baking waffles. Bonnie at the
organ on Sunday in the little church in town, or sitting in a corner of
the Sunday-school room surrounded by her seventeen boys, with her Bible
open on her lap and in her face the light of heaven while the boys
watched and listened, too intent to know that they were doing it. Bonnie
throwing snowballs from behind the snow fort he built her. Bonnie with
the wonderful mystery upon her when they talked about the little watch
and whether she might keep it. Bonnie in her window-seat with one of the
books he had given her, the morning he started to go out with Father
Marshall and see what was the matter with the automobile, and then came
back to his room unexpectedly after his knife and caught a glimpse of
her through the open door.

And that last one on the platform of Sloan's Station, waving him a
smiling good-by!

Courtland had torn himself away at last, with a promise that he would
return the minute his work was over, and with the consolation that
Bonnie was going to write to him. They had arranged to pursue a course
of study together. The future opened up rosily before him. How was it
that skies had ever looked dark, that he had thought his ideals
vanished, and womanhood a lost art when the world held this one pearl of
a girl? Bonnie! Rose Bonnie!

CHAPTER XXXIII

The rest of the winter sped away quickly. Courtland was very happy. Pat
looked at him enviously sometimes, yet he was content to have it so. His
old friend had not quite so much time to spend with him, but when he
came for a walk and a talk it was with a heartiness that satisfied. Pat
had long ago discovered that there was a girl at Stephen Marshall's old
home, and he sat wisely quiet and rejoiced. What kind of a girl he could
only imagine from Courtland's rapt look when he received a letter, and
from the exquisite photograph that presently took its place on
Courtland's desk. He hoped to have opportunity to judge more a