ere to get him!" groaned Jack Charrington to her
one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her happy past, she had
opened her heart. "Why does he keep away?" he added bitterly.

"It is my fault, Jack," she replied. "He is not to blame. No one is to
blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure he will come, I
only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if--"

"Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are
getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly."

"Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling to grieve him. "I would
like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am sure to hear soon
now."

They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger
wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching.

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "there it is!"

"Come, Iola," said Jack, almost sternly, "come in and sit down." So
saying, he brought her into the library and made her recline upon the
couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of her waking hours
were spent.

It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the
library. "Shall I open it?" he asked, with an anxious look at Iola.

"Yes," she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart.

Lady Ruthven came to her side. "Iola, darling," she said, taking both
her hands in hers, "it is good to feel that God's arms are about us
always."

"Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, regaining her composure;
"I'm learning. I'm not afraid."

Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read
the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back
upon her couch. "God is good," she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over
her. "You were right. Teach me how to trust Him better."

"Are you all right, Iola?" said Jack, anxiously feeling her pulse.

"Quite right, Jack, dear," she said.

"Then hooray!" cried Jack, starting up. "Let's see, 'Coming Silurian
seventh. Barney.'" he read aloud. "The seventh was yesterday. Six days.
She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be here by Monday at latest."

"Saturday, Jack," said Iola, opening her eyes.

"Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed.
Meantime, you're not to fret." And he frowned sternly down upon her.

"Fret?" she cried, looking up brightly. "Never more, Jack. I shall never
fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for these five days,
every hour, every minu