ant
something higher than gruel and bandages. She never forgot as she
ministered to the body that she was dealing with a soul.

John Randolph, standing with folded arms in the doorway, heard her low,
sweet laugh, as she strove to brighten up a lachrymose patient; and
caught at intervals the name of Jesus, as she reminded one and another
of the Friend whose sympathy is strong enough to bear all the weight of
human pain, and once he thought he heard the sweet note of a prayer. He
started forward. Evadne was bending over a man who had been badly
crippled in a saw mill. His left arm was gone and all the fingers from
his right hand. With the morbidness of those who delight in
concentrating attention upon their own sufferings, he had pulled off the
loosened bandage with his teeth and held up the stump for inspection,
and Evadne had laid her cool, soft hands on either side of the unsightly
mass of red and angry flesh and was holding them there while she talked!

"She gives herself!" cried John Randolph with a great throb of longing.
"It is what Jesus did, in Galilee."

A wave of passion broke over him. It was not true, this story. It could
not be! How could her nature, sweet as light, ever be attuned to that of
her cynical cousin? She was coming nearer, nearer. He would stay and
meet her. He thought he had read his answer in her eyes. Now he would
have it from her lips as well.

But then, there was the ring! Isabelle had been right. It was no lady's
ornament, and he had seen the initials L. H. graven in the heart of the
stone as their hands had met one day in dressing a wound. Evadne
Hildreth was not one to wear a man's ring lightly and John Randolph bent
his head and groaned.

"Sister, Sister, won't you sing before you go?"

"Oh, yes, Sister, give us just one song!"

The men raised themselves on their elbows in pleading entreaty, and
Evadne stood in all her sweet unconsciousness before him and began to do
their will. Soft and clear the music fell about him. The air was 'The
last Rose of Summer' but the words were 'Jesus, Lover of my soul.' When
the song was ended, John Randolph, hushed and comforted, walked
noiselessly down the stairway and out into the quiet street.

Evadne had sung her message, while she folded its leaves of healing down
over her own sore heart, and human love had paled before the exquisite
beauty of the love of God!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"John Randolph!"

"Rege!"

The two men stood facing