addle. We have been very fortunate in
our adopted daughter, Robert.'

'Yes, she is a sweet girl, and her passion for knowledge is just the
incentive that our lazy little Belle needs. I only hope her father will
never take it into his head to claim her again. She is a blessing in the
house.'

On and on the riders travelled, through the exhilarating autumn air,
until they stopped for lunch on the borders of a forest which Jack Frost
had set ablaze, and which glowed in the sunshine with a dazzling
splendour of crimson and bronze and gold. The hours flew by, and when
they started homewards the sun was sinking in majestic glory, while on
the opposite horizon the moon rose, silver clear. Pauline's every nerve
quivered with delight. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

When she went up to her room that night her eye fell on the forgotten
letter. She opened it slowly with a smile on her lips. Suddenly the
smile faded, and a cold chill crept into her heart.

'It has been such a happy day,' she had told Aunt Rutha, as, after the
merry supper was over, she had stood by her side in the soft-lighted
library. 'Such a happy day, without a flaw!' And now already it seemed
to be fading into the dim, dim past! And yet it was only a few hours
since Richard Everidge had climbed lightly up after the spray of
brilliant leaves which she had admired, and she had pinned them against
the dark background of her riding habit; even now they were before her
on the table. She looked at them with a dull sense of pain.

'Mother has had a stroke of some sort,' Mr Harding wrote, 'the doctor
doesn't seem to know rightly what. She is somewhat better, but she can't
leave her bed. The children are well, except Polly, who seems weakly.
The doctor thinks her spine has been hurt. Mother had her in her arms
when she fell.'

Pauline shivered. Was this God's 'best' for her? The letter dropped from
her hand, and she sat for hours motionless, her eyes taking in every
detail of the pretty moonlit room, until it was indelibly engraved upon
her memory.

* * * * *

When the morning came she took the letter to Tryphosa. She could not
trust herself to tell the others yet.

The eyes that looked up at her from the open sheet were very tender.

'Dear child, are you satisfied?'

'With what, my lady?'

'With Christ, and the life He has planned for you?'

She hesitated. If it had been this other life that she had been plannin