made her so dear to him.

As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with the thought of the
separation beginning to weigh upon her, went back to her mother. They
knew that this was the last quiet time they would have together for many
long months. But last days are not good days for talking. They spoke
very little. Every now and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some inquiry
about the packing or the journey, or would try to cheer the child by
speaking of the house they would have at the end of the two years. But
Erica was not to be comforted; a dull pain was gnawing at her heart,
and the present was not to be displaced by any visions of a golden
future. "If it were not for leaving you alone, mother, I shouldn't mind
so much," she said, in a choked voice. "But it seems to me that you have
the hardest part of all."

"Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom," said Mrs. Raeburn.

"Aunt Jean is very kind," said Erica, doubtfully. "But she doesn't know
how to nurse people. Tom is the one hope, and he has promised always
to tell me the whole truth about you; so if you get worse, I shall come
home directly."

"You mustn't grudge me my share of the work," said Mrs. Raeburn. "It
would make me very miserable if I did hinder you or your father."

Erica sighed. "You and father are so dreadfully public-spirited! And yet,
oh, mother! What does the whole world matter to me if I think you are
uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone?"

"You will learn to think differently, dear, by and by," said her mother,
kissing the eager, troubled face. "And, when you fancy me lonely, you
can picture me instead as proud and happy in thinking of my brave little
daughter who has gone into exile of her own accord to help the cause of
truth and liberty."

They were inspiriting words, and they brought a glow to Erica's face;
she choked down her own personal pain. No religious martyr went through
the time of trial more bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter lived
through the next four and twenty hours. She never forgot even the most
trivial incident of that day, it seemed burned in upon her brain. The
dreary waking on the dark winter morning, the hurried farewells to her
aunt and Tom, the last long embrace from her mother, the drive to the
station, her father's recognition on the platform, the rude staring and
ruder comments to which they were subjected, then the one supreme wrench
of parting, the look of pain in her father's face, the trembling of
his voice, the