s, wagging his tail wistfully as though eager to
be off, for he seemed to realize that this was his holiday too.

"Are you ready to go, Prince?" asked Grace, patting the dog on the head
as she looked into his great brown eyes.

Prince licked his mouth and pushed his nose close under her hand while
his tail wagged violently. "Yes, of course he is. I wish my old limbs
would let me go too, but I can't even hobble to-day for the rheumatism
has been dreadful the last week," said Mrs. Clayland, as she wiped her
spectacles.

Grace hardly knew what to say, for here was just the place for a little
sympathy, and yet she must shut her eyes to false beliefs and
conditions, so she wisely talked of the beautiful day, the warm air, and
what not, while secretly resolving that Mrs. Clayland should be her
first patient if she ever knew how to treat patients according to the
Christ method. In the mean time, she would give her some thoughts.

While Mrs. Clayland volubly rattled on, talking of all her aches and
pains, Grace was doing her best to think of the very opposite statement,
that she was well.

At last, however, with Prince trotting gaily in front of her, she began
her rambles in earnest. She knew of a beautiful view from one of the
hills near by, and slowly wended her way thitherward. The hush and quiet
of the place seemed such a relief after the troubled hours of the past
night, and as she came to the gentle slope of the grassy hill, she threw
herself into the soft warm grass, in the shade of a stately elm that
stood there alone, and gave herself up to thinking--thinking of the
deepest and most sacred problems in human experience.

Prince came and laid himself at her feet. The soft autumn sunshine
played here and there upon her form and face through the leaves, while
the occasional note of a bird or hum of an insect were the only sounds
that broke the stillness of the lonely place. What an exquisite pleasure
to lie there and breathe in all this wonderful peace, for it was like a
taste of heaven. Far away from all perplexities and cares, she could
have lost herself in sweet forgetfulness but for this one theme that
would persist in thrusting itself upon her. At last it had resolved
itself into the form of a question. Should she or should she not write
to Leon Carrington? Might it not be possible she had been misinformed,
and that she was mistaken in her hasty conclusions?

Life presented a different aspect now from what it h