own counsel and hold to his purpose,
without stirring these dear old friends to sorrowful sympathy. So he
passed on, unseen by them, feeling the old love for the place and all
the tender memories connected with it revived and deepened. On he
went, strolling toward the little schoolhouse where he had found dear
Betty Ballard sleeping at the big school desk the evening before, and
passed it by--only looking in curiously at the tousled heads bent over
their lessons, and at Betty herself, where she sat at the desk, a
class on the long recitation bench before her, and a great boy
standing at the blackboard. He saw her rise and take the chalk from
the boy's hand and make a few rapid strokes with it on the board.

Little Betty a school-teacher! She had suffered much! How much did she
care now? Was it over and her heart healed? Had other loves come to
her? All intent now on her work, she stood with her back toward him,
and as he passed the open door she turned half about, and he saw her
profile sharply against the blackboard. Older? Yes, she looked older,
but prettier for that, and slight and trim and neat, dressed in a soft
shade of green. She had worn such a dress once at a picnic. Well he
remembered it--could he ever forget? Swiftly she turned again to the
board and drew the eraser across the work, and he heard her voice
distinctly, with its singing quality--how well he remembered that
also--"Now, how many of the class can work this problem?"

Ah, little Betty! little Betty! Life is working problems for us all,
and you are working yours to a sweet conclusion, helping the children,
and taking up your own burdens and bearing them bravely. This was
Harry King's thought as he strolled on and seated himself again under
the basswood tree by the meadow brook, and took from his pocket the
worn scrap of paper the wind had brought him and read it again.

"Out of my life, and into the night,
But never out of my heart, my own.
Into the darkness, out of the light,
Bleeding and wounded and walking alone."

Such a tender, rhythmic bit of verse--Betty must have written it. It
was like her.

After a time he rose and strolled back again past the little
schoolhouse, and it was recess. Long before he reached it he heard the
voices of the children shouting, "Anty, anty over, anty, anty over."
They were divided into two bands, one on either side of the small
building, over which th