yed as long as possible, and when at last after repeated
telegrams there still came the answer, "Messenger not yet returned,"
they bore the worn-out body of the woman to a quiet resting place beside
her beloved husband in the churchyard on the hillside where the soft
maples scattered bright covering over the new mound, and the sky arched
high with a kind of triumphant reminder of where the spirit was gone.

Hazel tried to have every detail just as she thought he would have liked
it. The neighbours brought of their homely flowers in great quantities,
and some city friends who had been old summer boarders sent hot-house
roses. The minister conducted the beautiful service of faith, and the
village children sang about the casket of their old friend, who had
always loved every one of them, their hands full of the late flowers
from her own garden, bright scarlet and blue and gold, as though it were
a joyous occasion. Indeed, Hazel had the impression, even as she moved
in the hush of the presence of death, that she was helping at some
solemn festivity of deep joy instead of a funeral--so glorious had been
the hope of the one who was gone, so triumphant her faith in her
Saviour.

After the funeral was over Hazel sat down and wrote a letter telling
about it all, filling it with sympathy, trying to show their effort to
have things as he would have liked them, and expressing deep sorrow that
they had been compelled to go on with the service without him.

That night there came a message from the Arizona station agent. The
missionary had been found in a distant Indian hogan with a dislocated
ankle. He sent word that they must not wait for him; that he would get
there in time, if possible. A later message the next day said he was
still unable to travel, but would get to the railroad as soon as
possible. Then came an interval of several days without any word from
Arizona.

Hazel went about with Amelia Ellen, putting the house in order, hearing
the beautiful plaint of the loving-hearted, mourning servant as she told
little incidents of her mistress. Here was the chair she sat in the last
time she went up-stairs to oversee the spring regulating, and that was
Mr. John's little baby dress in which he was christened. His mother
smoothed it out and told her the story of his baby loveliness one day.
She had laid it away herself in the box with the blue shoes and the
crocheted cap. It was the last time she ever came up-stairs.

There was