and wear your wreath of rue.
You will come to it."

"But where? How shall I go from here? I'm afraid I shall lose my way."

[Sidenote: On the Upward Trail]

The stern eyes fixed themselves upon her steadily. "Do not question Life
too much," he warned her. "Accept it. Have I not told you to go?"

Her fear suddenly returned. She went backward, slowly, toward the door,
away from the table and the tall grey figure that stood by it, holding
the letter addressed to Mrs. Virginia Marsh. When she was outside, she
drew a long breath of relief. It was daybreak, and grey lights on the
far horizon foreshadowed the sunrise.

She ran down the steps, stumbling as she passed the broken one, and went
hurriedly down the weed-choked path. The broken marble statues were
green with mould and the falling waters seemed to move with difficulty,
like the breath of one about to die. The stillness of the place was vast
and far-reaching; it encompassed her as the night had previously done.

She soon found the trail that led upward, though she did not recognise
the point at which she had turned into the garden. She had no doubt,
now, about the path she must take. It led up, up, through thorns and
brambles, past the crags upon which the first light shone, and around
the crest of the peak to--what? Drawing a long breath, Rosemary started,
carrying her lily and wearing her wreath of rue.

[Sidenote: The Coming Dawn]

The brown gingham hung in tatters and her worn shoes threatened to drop
from her feet, but the divine fragrance of the lily she bore sustained
her as she climbed. She was glad she had chosen as she had, though his
words still puzzled her. "It is always service," she repeated, "and it
may be sacrifice. It means giving, not receiving; asking, not answer."

"And yet," she mused, "he said they all asked for it. I should have
taken the letter," she continued, to herself. "Alden could have given it
to his mother."

It seemed strange to be thinking of him as "Alden" instead of "Mr.
Marsh," and yet it was supremely sweet. She felt the colour burning in
her cheeks, for she knew, now, that he awaited her, somewhere on the
height. Had he not chosen Love too? Were they not to find it together?

Dull, prismatic fires glowed upon the distant clouds--dawn-jewels laid
upon the breast of Night. Violet and blue mellowed into opal and
turquoise, then, as the spectrum may merge into white light, a shaft of
sunrise broke from the mysterious East,