tarted eagerly toward the insurmountable crags that divided him from
the Vision.

Rosemary saw it, too, at the same instant--a woman whose white gown
shimmered and shone, and whose face was hidden by the blinding glory of
her sunlit hair.

* * * * *

She woke, murmuring his name, then rubbed her eyes. It took her several
minutes to realise that it was all a dream. She was in her own little
room in the brown house, and the sun was peeping through the shutters.
The holes in the rag carpet, the cheap, cracked mirror, the braided mat
in front of her washstand, and the broken pitcher all contrived to
reassure her.

[Sidenote: The Fair Future]

She sat up in bed, knowing that it was time to get up, but desperately
needing a few moments in which to adjust herself to her realities. What
had happened? Nothing, indeed, since yesterday--ah, that dear yesterday,
when life had begun! What could ever happen now, when all the future lay
fair before her and the miseries of her twenty-five years were
overwhelmed by one deep intoxicating joy?

"Dreams," thought Rosemary, laughing to herself. "Ah, what are dreams!"

She opened the shutters wide and the daylight streamed in. It was not
fraught with colour, like the mists of her dream, but was the clear,
sane light of every day. A robin outside her window chirped cheerily,
and a bluebird flashed across the distant meadow, then paused on the
rushes at the bend of the river and swayed there for a moment, like some
unfamiliar flower.

"Rosemary!" The shrill voice sounded just outside her door.

"Yes, Aunt Matilda," she answered, happily; "I'm coming!"

She sang to herself as she moved about her room, loving the dear,
common things of every day--the splash of cool water on her face and
throat, the patchwork quilt, and even the despised brown gingham, which
was, at least, fresh and clean.

[Sidenote: Service and Sacrifice]

"Service," she said to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving;
asking, and not answer. I wonder if it's true!" For an instant she was
afraid, then her soul rallied as to a bugle call. "Even so," she
thought, "I'll take it, and gladly. I'll serve and sacrifice and give,
and never mind the answer."

She hurried down-stairs, where the others were waiting. "You're late,
Rosemary," said Grandmother, sourly.

"Yes, I know," laughed the girl, stooping to kiss the withered cheek.
"I'm sorry! I won't let it happen again!"

Out