ing comradeship. Even from Him
the words had to be wrung: "Thy will, not Mine, be done."

She whispered them at last. Not bravely, at all. Feebly, haltingly,
with a little sob: her forehead pressed against the cold iron seat, as if
that could help her.

She thought that even then God might reconsider it--see her point of
view. Perhaps He would send her a sign.

The ragged figure on the bench opposite opened its eyes, stared at her;
then went to sleep again. A prowling cat paused to rub itself against
her foot, but meeting no response, passed on. Through an open window,
somewhere near, filtered the sound of a child's low whimpering.

It was daylight when she awoke. She was cold and her limbs ached. Slowly
her senses came back to her. The seat opposite was vacant. The gas lamp
showed but a faint blue point of flame. Her dress was torn, her boots
soiled and muddy. Strands of her hair had escaped from underneath her
hat.

She looked at her watch. Fortunately it was still early. She would be
able to let herself in before anyone was up. It was but a little way.
She wondered, while rearranging her hair, what day it was. She would
find out, when she got home, from the newspaper.

In the street she paused a moment and looked back through the railings.
It seemed even still more sordid in the daylight: the sooty grass and the
withered shrubs and the asphalte pathway strewn with dirty paper. And
again a laugh she could not help broke from her. Her Garden of
Gethsemane!

She sent a brief letter round to Phillips, and a telegram to the nurse,
preparing them for what she meant to do. She had just time to pack a
small trunk and catch the morning train. At Folkestone, she drove first
to a house where she herself had once lodged and fixed things to her
satisfaction. The nurse was waiting for her in the downstairs room, and
opened the door to her. She was opposed to Joan's interference. But
Joan had come prepared for that. "Let me have a talk with her," she
said. "I think I've found out what it is that is causing all the
trouble."

The nurse shot her a swift glance. "I'm glad of that," she said dryly.
She let Joan go upstairs.

Mrs. Phillips was asleep. Joan seated herself beside the bed and waited.
She had not yet made herself up for the day and the dyed hair was hidden
beneath a white, close-fitting cap. The pale, thin face with its closed
eyes looked strangely young. Suddenly the thin hands clasp