s if some higher part of
me had inwardly expressed approval of my prayerful aspirations, and had
confirmed my belief that Christopher would be restored to me.

"Penelope!" the voice spoke again, this time with unmistakable
distinctness, and now I opened my eyes and saw Seraphine standing before
me.

"Seraphine! Where did you come from? I thought you were in America--in
New York."

Smiling tenderly she helped me to my feet and led me away from the
multitude.

"Let us go where we can talk quietly," she said.

"We will go to the hospice, where I am staying," I replied, not
marvelling very much, but more than ever filled with the knowledge that
God was guiding and protecting me.

"This has been a wonderful day for me, Seraphine," I told her when we
came to my room, "the most wonderful day in my whole life."

"I know, dear," she answered calmly, as if nothing could surprise her
either.

Then I explained everything that had happened--why I had left America so
suddenly, why I had felt that I must never see Christopher again.

"But you don't feel that way any more?" she asked me with a look of
strange understanding in her deep eyes.

"No," said I, "everything is changed now. My fears are gone. I see that
I must count upon Christopher to have the same faith and courage that I
have in my own heart. Why should I expect to bear the whole burden of
our future? He must bear his part of it. The responsibility goes with
the love, doesn't it? I saw that this afternoon--it came to me like a
flash when the procession passed. Isn't it wonderful?

"Dear child, the working of God's love for His children is always
wonderful. This is a place of miracles"--she paused as if searching into
my soul--"and the greatest miracle is yet to come."

I felt the color flooding to my cheeks.

"What do you mean?"

"I must go back a little, Penelope, and tell you something important.
You haven't asked about Captain Herrick."

"Is he--is he well?" I stammered.

She shook her head ominously.

"No. He is far from well. You did not realize, dear, what an effect that
letter of yours would have upon him. It was a mortal blow."

I tried to speak, but I could not; my bosom rose and fell with quick
little gasping breaths, as if I was suffocating.

"There was no particular illness," my friend continued, "just a general
fading away, a slow discouragement. He had no interest in anything, and
about a month ago Doctor Owen told me the poor fellow w