t of
it."

"Mr. Curzon can," said Sally, lifting her head from Paul's shoulder.
"He has got hold of something that you and I have missed. There is
positive conviction written on his face of the living God whom Allison
in dying was vaguely feeling after."

"Oh, he's a fine fellow in his way, I don't deny it, and has the
courage of his opinions; but he can't know. Nobody does," said Paul,
doggedly. "And now, dear, we'll have supper. You will take a less
hysterical view of life and death in the morning."

CHAPTER IX.

A CRISIS IN A LIFE.

A year had passed since poor Allison's sun set so stormily. It was
curious that his death marked the beginning of a new life for Sally;
but so it was. It had changed her attitude of mind towards things
eternal, from one of placid indifference to active inquiry. Paul's
assertion that "nobody knew" satisfied no longer, and she turned from
him to Mr. Curzon.

"Death can't be the end of it all," she said abruptly to the rector,
when she met him a few days after Allison had passed away.

"Oh no," he answered, following her lead with quick sympathy. "Our
Lord's death and resurrection teach us that it is but the beginning."

"I wish I could believe it. Can you help me? can any one help me?"
Sally said.

"I may be the signpost to show you the road, and I will tell you of the
things which have helped me on the road; but God is even now drawing
you to Himself by His Holy Spirit," said Mr. Curzon, earnestly.

Thus, under Mr. Curzon's guidance, Sally began the course of study
which ended, before many months had passed away, in the passionate
conviction that in Christ alone could be found the Way, the Truth, and
the Life.

Paul guessed at the fact that his sister was passing through some new
phase of thought, by the books he found left about the room, and by a
newly developed earnestness which underlay her natural gaiety of manner.

"Poor child! Allison's death frightened her. And it is as well that
she should study both sides of the question," he thought. He did not
doubt that eventually she would accept his decision as final.

It was November, and Paul came into lunch one day with an unusual air
of depression. His farming venture was proving a grievous failure, as
far as money was concerned. On every side he found himself hampered by
poverty. The summer had been a wet one, and, in common humanity, he
had had to make a considerable reduction in his farm rents;
i