ealousy and drink. Still the pages turned. He
was kneeling by her side at the Communion table, and a voice said, "As
oft as ye drink of this cup"--he was drinking of it now--the cup the
Master drank in the garden's gloom. Then the sobs overcame him. Again
he was still. The storm had spent its fury, the moon was struggling
through the rifted clouds. He remembered Glacier Point and that
immortal night, and he felt as if she was here and God was here, and
he knelt and prayed, "Thy will, not mine, be done," and the angels of
peace and rest came and ministered unto him.

From sheer exhaustion he finally slept. It was but the passing of a
moment, and he was awake again. There in the moonlight he read,
"Jane." Could he bear it? He could see her now saying good-by. Oh, it
was forever, forever! Then, like a flash it came--forever? No; only a
little span of life, and, at the gates of pearl, he would see her
waiting to welcome him. She was there now, up where the stars were
shining and the moon had parted the clouds. Her frail body was here
perhaps--but Jane, his Jane, who that night at Glacier Point had said
she loved him--she was there. He would be brave; he would be true to
God; he would lean on the Master's arm. Jesus was left--he was with
him here in the lonely graveyard, and Jane was his still for all
eternity.

The young man looked up from the dark earth to the clear sky, and
prayed a prayer of hope and trust and submission. Near the hour of
dawn he walked out to the gate where Bess stood waiting. He mounted
her--dear Bess! who alone knew the story of the awful tragedy. He
patted her neck; he whispered his sorrow in her ear. And then a
strange, wild thought came to him. He would not go back--he would go
away to the great, outside world, never to see the mountains again.
How could he ever climb Sugar Pine Hill, or go past the old
school-house, or enter the old church? He would go where no gleam from
sun-kissed El Capitan could reach his eye, where no associations that
would remind of a life forever past could haunt his soul.

Then he remembered something--it seemed like a nightmare. They had
said he did it--how, when, why, he knew not. If he went away they
would think he was afraid to face them, they would believe him guilty,
and the old man would be broken-hearted. Job had forgotten him--he had
forgotten all but his awful sorrow. What of it? Go anyway, his heart
said. Go away from this world that has been full of trial a