e effects of that dreadful sea disaster wherein
a son, a daughter, and a dear friend had been lost, and to finally make
his way westward to the people to whom both son and daughter had
belonged. He had arrived during apple-blossom time, and the
white-haired, sad-faced man who seemed to have had all mortality burned
from him by fiery trials, was kindly received by Mr. Elston, his
daughter Julia and her husband, Bishop Glen Curtis. These listened to
his strange story, and were profoundly moved by its tragic ending. They
urged him to remain with them, Julia giving him the room on the attic
floor which previously was hers. He was grateful for all these
kindnesses, saying he would be pleased to visit with them for a time.

Out under the apple trees in the growing orchard Hugh Elston made for
their guest a seat, where during the day he would sit as one alone,
listening and waiting here in this spot away from the noise and traffic
of the world for a final message which the God of the Universe might
send him. As far as his strength would allow, he liked to walk along the
country roads, which now extended for many miles from Piney Ridge, and
chat with the neighbors about the country and its prospects. He also
made some minor excursions up the hillsides, but in this direction he
could not go far. Frequently he stopped to rest by the enclosed graves,
where he sat on the grass, and with hands on cane, looked wonderingly at
the two graves, side by side.

But whispered messages from out the blue or storms of heaven did not
come to this man. Neither were there angels sent to tell him what to do;
but the Lord had one more thing--simple indeed--to bear upon the
reluctant heart of Thomas Strong.

In the little attic room which Julia had turned over to her guest were
many books, papers, and magazines. She had told him that everything in
the room was at his service, and so the visitor made good use of the
kind offer. One day he found a small book which had the name Anna
Lawrence--Chester's mother--written on the fly-leaf. Curiously turning
over the pages of the volume, which was simply a school book of the kind
he remembered in his youth, he found between the leaves an old letter.
He unfolded the deeply creased sheets, looked at the strange
handwriting, saw that it was dated thirty years ago, and addressed to
"Miss Anna Lawrence" and signed by a name unknown to him. There could no
harm come from reading this message from the past, so he