ared the worst part of her
ordeal.

But her mother's reply dashed her hopes, made her settle back among the
cushions and hide her face. "It IS all right, Polly. You're to have
your own way, and it's your father's way. John has convinced him that
he really has changed. We knew--that is, I suspected why you were
coming, and we thought we'd give you a surprise--give you what your
heart was set on, before you had to ask for it. I'm so sorry, dear,
that the shock was--"

Pauline lay perfectly still, her face hidden. After a pause: "I don't
feel well enough to see him now. I want this day with you and father.
To-morrow--to-morrow, we'll--to-day I want to be as I was when I
was--just you and father, and the house and the garden."

Her mother left her for a moment and, when she came back, said: "He's
gone."

Pauline gave a quick sigh of relief. Soon she rose. "I'm going for
father, and we'll walk in the garden and forget there's anybody else in
the world but just us three."

At half-past eight they had family prayers in the sitting-room; Pauline
kneeling near her mother, her father kneeling beside his arm-chair and
in a tremulous voice pouring out his gratitude to God for keeping them
all "safe from the snares and temptations of the world," for leading
them thus far on the journey.

"And, God, our Father, we pray Thee, have this daughter of ours, this
handmaiden of Thine, ever in Thy keeping. And these things we ask in
the name of Thy Son--Amen." The serene quiet, the beloved old room,
the evening scene familiar to her from her earliest childhood, her
father's reverent, earnest voice, halting and almost breaking after
every word of the petition for her; her mother's soft echo of his
"Amen"--Pauline's eyes were swimming as she rose from her knees.

Her mother went with her to her bedroom, hovered about her as she
undressed, helped her now and then with fingers that trembled with
happiness, and, when she was in bed, put out the light and "tucked her
in" and kissed her--as in the old days. "Good night--God bless my
little daughter--my HAPPY little daughter."

Pauline waited until she knew that they were sleeping. Then she put on
a dressing-gown and went to the open window--how many springtimes had
she sat there in the moonlight to watch, as now, the tulips and the
hyacinths standing like fairies and bombarding the stars with the most
delicious perfumes.

She sat hour after hour, giving no outward sign of ba