or her boy. A pause, a great sigh of
sympathy and disappointment, and then the applause burst forth again,
and continued till the young missionary had left the church.

Hazel, in bitter disappointment, turned and slipped out. She had not
caught a glimpse of his beloved face. She exulted that she had heard the
honour given him, been a part of those who rejoiced in his power and
consecration, but she could not have him go without having at least one
look at him.

She hurried blindly down the stairs, out to the street, and saw a
carriage standing before the door. The carriage door had just been
closed, but as she gazed he turned and looked out for an instant,
lifting his hat in farewell to a group of ministers who stood on the
church steps. Then the carriage whirled him away and the world grew
suddenly blank.

She had been behind the men on the steps, just within the shadow of the
dim doorway. He had not seen her, and of course would not have
recognized her if he had; yet now she realized that she had
hoped--oh--what had she not hoped from meeting him here!

But he was gone, and it might be years before he came East again. He had
utterly put her from his life. He would not think of her again if he did
come! Oh, the loneliness of a world like this! Why, oh why, had she ever
gone to the desert to learn the emptiness of her life, when there was
no other for her anywhere!

The days that followed were very sad and hard. The only thought that
helped now was that she too had tried to give her life for something
worth while as he had done, and perhaps it might be accepted. But there
was a deep unrest in her soul now, a something that she knew she had not
got that she longed inexpressibly to have. She had learned to cook and
to nurse. She was not nearly so useless as when she rode all care-free
upon the desert. She had overcome much of her unworthiness. But there
was still one great obstacle which unfitted her for companionship and
partnership with the man of the desert. She had not the something in her
heart and life that was the source and centre of self-sacrifice. She was
still unworthy.

There was a long letter about the first of June from her friend in New
Hampshire, more shakily written, she fancied, than those that had come
before, and then there came an interval without any reply to hers. She
had little time, however, to worry about it, for the weather was
unusually warm and the hospital was full. Her strength was ta