r to his Lord. The time had come to hold to
those honest terms.

Hubert rose from his seat with a pale face, and a death-like sinking at
his heart. "Yes, Lord Jesus," he uttered with dry lips, "I am at Thy
command. Forgive my coward halting. If Thou wilt send me, I will go."

On the other side of the hall, in her pretty room, Winifred had prayed:
"We have seen the glance of Thine eye, O Lord, and know Thy longing.
Open our eyes to see how we may serve Thee, and strengthen our hearts
to bear--nay, to love!--Thy will. If we must give each other up"--a
long pause, broken by storms of weeping, intervened--"then let us
see--oh, _let us see Thy face_!"

When Winifred and Hubert first met in the hall next morning some gleams
of comfort had already stolen into both their hearts. He put his arm
about her as they descended the stairs together, and at the foot they
paused.

"Dear little sister!" he said caressingly.

Her eyes filled at his unusual tenderness; for Hubert's love, however
fervent and well believed-in, was not demonstrative. She looked up in
his face with a long, serious question. He answered it by asking:

"Shall I go?--for Him, Winnie?"

"Yes, Hubert," she said earnestly, "oh, yes!" But the color flickered
in her cheeks and her lips grew white.

They stood for a moment together but neither spoke. Together they
presented afresh their offering to God, and He knew that it was costly.

At breakfast neither spoke of the matter that was uppermost in their
hearts. But later Hubert sought his father in the library and made
known to him the step he had taken.

Grief, dismay, and almost anger, struggled in the older man's heart.
He looked at his son with sorrowful sternness.

"Then--then, Hubert," he said very slowly, "you have concluded to leave
me."

A pang shot through Hubert's heart, keener than any thought of his own
pain, but he answered steadily:

"I have concluded, father, to follow Christ."

Mr. Gray frowned. He was not conscious of frowning at the name of
Christ, or at so pure a sentiment as that uttered, but grief made him
insensible to what he did.

"And is that," he asked with some irony, "the only way you can find of
following Him? Can no one follow Him at home?"

"I do not see that he can if he is called abroad, father."

"And are you called?" he asked sharply, still the pain at his heart
dulling any sense of shame that he could speak unsympathetically of
such a thing.