your father."

Graeme opened the study-door and went in.

"I will tell him to-night," said she. "God help us."

Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his
hand.

"Graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen Janet?"

"Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a little ago."

"Poor Janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. No one was so
particular as the minister in giving Janet her new title. It was always
"Mistress Snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and Graeme wondered
to-night.

"Has anything happened?" asked she.

"Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. Here it is. Her
mother is dead."

The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand.

"Yes," continued her father. "It was rather sudden, it seems--soon
after she had decided to come out here. It will be doubly hard for her
daughter to bear on that account. I must speak to her, poor Janet!"

Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to
tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on
any earthly good. "Poor Janet!" well might her father say; and amid her
own sorrow Graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. It
was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy
meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. It
did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour
afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend.

Mr Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, Graeme found
when she entered her sister's room. Marian was asleep, and coming close
to Mrs Snow, who sat gazing into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her
and put her arm's about her neck without a word. At first Graeme
thought she was weeping. She was not; but in a little she said, in a
voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "You see, my
dear, the upshot of all our fine plans."

"Oh, Janet! There's nothing in all the world that we can trust in."

"Ay, you may weel say that. But it is a lesson that we are slow to
learn; and the Lord winna let us forget."

There was a pause.

"When was it?" asked Graeme, softly.

"Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since I sat here.
Her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go."

"And would she have come?"

"Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from the
beginning. I thought I asked God's guiding, an