heart. In the midst, a noble joy. About it, a disquietude,
as of one who feels shut out--alone.

"I don't know what ails me. I wonder if I ain't glad! Of course, it's
nothing to me. I ain't in it. But it must be beautiful to be so! And to
have such words said! _She_ don't know what a sight the minister thinks
of her! I know. I knew before. It's beautiful--but I ain't in it. Only,
I think I've got the feeling of it all. And I'm glad it's real,
somewhere. Some way, I seem to have so much _here_, that never grows out
into anything. Maybe I'd be beautiful if it did!"

So talked Glory, interjectionally, with herself.

In the midst of these excited days, there came two letters to Mr.
Gartney.

One was from a gentleman in Michigan, in relation to some land Mr.
Gartney owned there, taken years ago, at a very low valuation, for a
debt. This was likely, from the rapid growth and improvement in the
neighborhood, to become, within a few years, perhaps, a property of some
importance.

The other letter was from his son, James Gartney, in San Francisco. The
young man urged his father to consider whether it might not be a good
idea for him to come out and join him in California.

James Gartney's proposal evidently roused his attention. It was a great
deal to think of, certainly; but it was worth thinking of, too. James
had married in San Francisco, had a pleasant home there, and was
prospering. Many old business friends had gone from Mishaumok, in the
years when the great flood of enterprise set westward across the
continent, and were building up name and influence in the Golden Land.
The idea found a place in his brain, and clung there. Only, there was
Faith! But things might come round so that even this thought need to be
no hindrance to the scheme.

Changes, and plans, and interests, and influences were gathering; all to
bear down upon one young life.

"More news!" said Mr. Gartney, one morning, coming in from his walk to
the village post office, to the pleasant sitting room, or morning room,
as Mrs. Etherege and Saidie called it, where Faith was helping her
sister write a list of the hundreds who were to receive Mr. and Mrs.
Selmore's cards--"At Home, in September, in Madison Square." "Whom do
you think I met in the village, this morning?"

Everybody looked up, and everybody's imagination took a discursive leap
among possibilities, and then everybody, of course, asked "Whom?"

"Old Jacob Rushleigh, himself. He has taken