t last he hit upon a bright idea. He asked some children along the street
whether they knew of any young woman named Bessie or Elizabeth living
there, but they all with one accord shook their heads, though one
volunteered the information that "Lizzie Smith lives there." It was most
distracting and unsatisfying. There was nothing for it but for him to go
home and wait in patience for her return. She would come back sometime
probably. She had not said so, but she had not said she would not. He had
found her once; he might find her again. And he could pray. She had found
comfort in that; so would he. He would learn what her secret was. He would
get acquainted with her "best Friend." Diligently did he study that little
book, and then he went and hunted up the man of God who had written it,
and who had been the one to lead Elizabeth into the path of light by his
earnest preaching every Sabbath, though this fact he did not know.

The days passed, and the Saturday came. Elizabeth, heavy-hearted, stood on
the deck of the Deutschland, and watched her native land disappear from
view. So again George Benedict had lost her from sight.

It struck Elizabeth, as she stood straining her eyes to see the last of
the shore through tears that would burn to the surface and fall down her
white cheeks, that again she was running away from a man, only this time
not of her own free will. She was being taken away. But perhaps it was
better.

And it never once entered her mind that, if she had told her grandmother
who the friend in Montana was, and where he lived in Philadelphia, it
would have made all the difference in the world.

From the first of the voyage Grandmother Bailey grew steadily worse, and
when they landed on the other side they went from one place to another
seeking health. Carlsbad waters did not agree with her, and they went to
the south of France to try the climate. At each move the little old lady
grew weaker and more querulous. She finally made no further resistance,
and gave up to the role of invalid. Then Elizabeth must be in constant
attendance. Madam Bailey demanded reading, and no voice was so soothing as
Elizabeth's.

Gradually Elizabeth substituted books of her own choice as her grandmother
seemed not to mind, and now and then she would read a page of some book
that told of the best Friend. At first because it was written by the dear
pastor at home it commanded her attention, and finally because some
dormant chord i