st minute, stood in the shadow of
the doorway during the ceremony, saw you look up towards me at its
conclusion, then turned and fled from the house; fearful of being
recognized and forced to betray my secret which I felt I could not hide.

"But don't weep for me, dear friend, my sorrow and disappointment proved
blessings in disguise, for through them I was brought to a saving
knowledge of Him

"'whom my soul desires above
All earthly joy or earthly love.'"

"And oh, Harold, how infinitely more is His love worth than mine!"

But her eye fell upon Walter's letter lying forgotten in her lap. She took
it up, glanced over it, then read it more carefully, pausing often to wipe
away the blinding tears. As she finished, Mr. Travilla came in.

"Here is a letter from Walter, Edward," she said, in tremulous tones, as
she handed it to him.

"Then the report of his death was untrue?" he exclaimed inquiringly, a
glad look coming into his face.

"Only too true," she answered, with a fresh burst of tears; and Harold
briefly explained.

"Shall I read it aloud, wife?" Mr. Travilla asked.

"If Harold cares to hear. There is no secret."

"I should like it greatly," Harold said; and Mr. Travilla read it to him,
while Elsie moved away to the farther side of the room, her heart filled
with a strange mixture of emotions, in which grief was uppermost.

The letter was filled chiefly with an account of the writer's religious
experience. Since his last visit to the Oaks he had been constantly
rejoicing in the love of Christ, and now, expecting, as he did, to fall in
the coming battle, death had no terrors for him. And he owed this, he
said, in great measure to the influence of his brother Horace and Elsie,
especially to the beautiful consistency of her Christian life through all
the years he had known her.

Through all her grief and sadness, what joy and thankfulness stirred in
her breast at that thought. Very humble and unworthy she felt; but oh,
what gladness to learn that her Master had thus honored her as an
instrument in His hands.

The door opened softly, and her three little ones came quietly in and
gathered about her. They had been taught thoughtfulness for others: Uncle
Harold was ill, and they would not disturb him.

Leaning confidingly on her lap, lifting loving, trustful eyes to her face,
"Mamma," they said, low and softly, "we have had our supper; will you come
with us now?"

"Yes, dear, presently."