It is not by grand or romantic events, that life is usually shaped; the most trivial things are the ministers of Destiny, but no matter how insignificant they may appear, they bring with them a sense of fatality not to be put away. When the great dramatist would make Othello murder Desdemona, he did not choose as a cause the loss of some priceless necklace, or a diamond ornament, he knew intuitively that such a simple thing as a pocket handkerchief would be more natural.

So in Theodora's case, the everyday occurrence of a quarrel with a servant girl was the culmination of years full of far more cogent reasons, for her final decision to abandon a life which she was unable to manage. But when Robert went to his dinner, and left her alone to struggle with a defeat and a loss she felt so keenly she came to this positive conclusion. In that hour her life was brought to the fine point of a single word. "Yes" or "No," which was it to be? Would she accept for herself and her child the wretched life she had unknowingly chosen? Or, would she abandon it, and seek some happier environment? And after half-an-hour's intense thought and feeling, she stood erect, and, clasping her hands, uttered an emphatic "Yes!" Even at that hour, her messenger was on his way to consult her parents, and she had little doubt as to their decision. She believed they would bid her "Go in God's name"; and fortified by that order, she would follow the advice David Campbell gave her. He knew the United States well, and it was a wonderful thing, he should have come home in this time of her trouble. Surely he had been sent for her help and direction.

She expected no word from her parents for about four days, but a ray of hope had penetrated the gloom of her surroundings; and wrong and unkindness took on a transient character. They were now merely passing annoyances, she would have gone beyond their power in a few weeks at the most. She resolved to make no more efforts to obtain justice, no more efforts to win a man whom neither love nor entreaties could prevent acting after his kind. She would now permit him to lay up grievances, with which to wound himself when he could no longer wound her. A sense of peace, coming from her acceptance of destiny, gave to her a singular calmness of manner and countenance, and a renewed alertness of mind, and mental lucidity.

In the morning Ducie, wearing her hat and cloak, served her late mistress and little David with their breakfast; then the three parted forever. David cried bitterly; the women had no tears left. In half-an-hour McNab came to remove the tray.

"I would leave your room as it is, ma'am," she said. "It will be seen to. Tak' my advice, and dinna lift a finger to it. Yoursel' and Master David will be getting your breakfast ten minutes earlier, for I am going to look after that bit business mysel'. You needna fret a moment anent the matter. It's settled."

"I do not intend to fret about anything, McNab."

"That's right. It is a lang lane that has no turning. You are coming to the turning, I think."

"I think so."

"But I wouldn't let on I saw it."

"Neither by look, nor word."

"That's right, too. If wanted, call McNab, but be sparing o' calls—there is both watcher and listener. I'm telling you."

"I know."

Theodora smiled understandingly, and McNab left the room, but left behind her a strong sense of guardianship and love. Yet just then McNab was rather in the dark, for her foster-son had not had time to tell her of his journey to Yorkshire. But uncertainty did not dash McNab, she had one of those blessed dispositions that are always sure no news is good news; and who always expect the "something" that may have happened, to be something wonderfully auspicious.

"Perhaps my lad had a word with her yesterday," she thought, "and perhaps he is making a move—for he wouldn't move without her word. I dare say that is just what has happened." She satisfied herself with this belief, and to the hopeful and cheerful, good angels send their heart's desire.

So Theodora sat still and let the house go on. Not until she was dressing for dinner did a maid come to attend to her rooms, but she made no remark. A short time afterwards, the girl returned with a letter and the information, that it had been opened by Mrs. Campbell through mistake. It was from Theodora's publisher, and purported to contain a check for seventy pounds and fifteen shillings for royalties due her. But the check was not in the letter. Her heart beat wildly, her cheeks burned, she rose as if to go and inquire for it; but on second thoughts she sat down and waited until Robert came into the room. Then she showed him the letter. He barely glanced at it, then threw it on the table.

"Will you ask your mother for my money, Robert? I want to buy David and myself some necessary clothing."

"I have the check."

"Give it to me, Robert. I need it so much."

"I put it in my pocket-book, because it is mine. I give it to you, because I choose to give it to you. Most husbands would not do so."

"You need not at every opportunity tell me that I have no rights, and no money, even if I myself have earned the money. One telling of such awful injustice is enough. I wish to know if my letters are also yours?"

"If I choose to claim them, they are mine."

"Are they also free to your mother?"

"If I choose to make them so."

"Then I will do without letters."

"You can please yourself."

She did not answer, and he went into the dining-room. In a short time she steadied herself sufficiently to follow him, but no one but Isabel took the slightest notice of her. Mrs. Campbell was in high spirits, and talked with her son in a jocular way about some event of which Theodora was ignorant. Jepson watched her plate and saw that she was attended to, and Isabel showed her disapproval of her mother's and brother's behavior by a sullen silence. For she was slow-minded, and could think of no way to express her sympathy with Theodora, except sulking at those who were annoying her. But she rose from the table when Theodora rose, and when Theodora said "Good-night, Isabel," she answered: "I should like to come into your parlor for a few minutes—if agreeable."

"You are very welcome, Isabel."

"Thank you. I only wanted to say, that I had nothing to do with the opening of your letter. I would no more open your letter, than I would pick your pocket."

"I am sure of that, Isabel. I wish you were my friend. I am very lonely since Christina went away. Have you heard from her?"

"Not one word. I am very lonely too. Good-night."

And Theodora thought until sleep came of the girl's sad face, and pitied her more than she pitied herself. For hope was building a new life in her heart, and she looked forward to a future, that in its freedom, beauty, and usefulness would atone for the present, and the past years of her married life; but, oh the sameness, and ennui, and moral and mental death of a life without aim or purpose, without love or expectations, or sensible work to do.

Early on the fourth day Mrs. Oliphant called, and brought Theodora a letter. She professedly came to ask Theodora to drive with her, and when her invitation was declined, did not remain many minutes. But Mrs. Campbell watched her coming and going, and made plenty of sarcastic remarks about both the lady and her dress, her carriage and her horses and servants. Isabel was scarcely conscious of them. Since the loss of her sister she had become still more severe, intense, and reticent; besides which, though no one suspected the movement, Isabel was considering a break in social custom, undreamed of by the severely proper maidens of her set.

It related to Sir Thomas Wynton. She had had a letter from him describing his journey to Paris, and his present life in that city, and he had asked Isabel to write him "all the news she could gather about Wynton village, and their friends in Glasgow, and to add also anything social, political, or religious she thought would interest him." And this request had opened up a pleasant prospect of collecting and arranging all the news she could glean from people, or from newspapers, and then writing the result to Sir Thomas. It was a wild, a daring thing for Isabel Campbell to attempt, but she had resolved to ask no one's advice about the right or the wrong of it. She would decide the matter for herself, and she was trying to do so while her mother was mocking at Mrs. Oliphant's dress and general appearance.

Meantime Theodora watched her friend away, and then went into her parlor, locking the door after closing it. David was busy with his slate and pencil in the music room, and she locked the door of that room also. Then she sat down with her letter in her hand, and after a moment's uplifting of her heart, she opened it and read the following words:

"My Dear Theodora:—Your mother and I have thoroughly considered all your good brother-in-law has told us. I will not dwell on our surprise and sorrow. I will but say, that you ought to put an end at once to a life which is dwarfing you on every side, and must be fast ruining your husband's better nature. For the cruelty and injustice done at first reluctantly has evidently become to him a necessary alternative to the dreariness of his business life. As some men find amusement in badgering and baiting animals, he apparently satisfies the same brutal instinct by baiting a wife whom our cruel laws has placed in his absolute power. I counsel you to leave him before conditions are worse, and some tragedy results. Take David Campbell's advice as to the locality where you may dwell in peace and safety. I approve what he has proposed to us so entirely, that whenever you are ready to move, your mother and I will go with you, though it should be to the ends of the earth. Think a moment, and you will understand that you must go with us, and not with your brother-in-law. I shall write to the Chairman of Conference to-day and resign my pastorate, and you know a Methodist preacher and his wife can move almost at a day's notice. Our clothing is all we personally own. My future is prepared for. There is nothing to fear. The Great Companion will go with us. Wherever your new home is made, our home will be made, and we will pray together for the man you still love. He will return to you "clothed and in his right mind." Do not doubt. Go away and rest your aching heart. Has the sun of your love set? Some blessing lies in the night; do not fear the darkness. Rest, and the sun of love will rise again. I append a few reasons why you should at this crisis leave your husband. If you are fully satisfied in your own mind, you can neglect them.

"1st. Habit reconciles us to much suffering, but a miserable marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. It is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. Submission to evils God ordains is the height of energy and nobility; submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the climax of weakness and cowardice. If two cannot live together in peace, they had better separate than cause each other to sin every day.

"2d. If you know you are on a wrong road, leave it; a wrong road cannot lead you right.

"3d. If you are sick, and the surgeon's knife is necessary, do not waste time with drugs and sedatives. Accept the knife as restorative.

"4th. If you make a mistake of any kind, it is your manifest duty to rectify it, or to spring out of its shadow; and an unhappy marriage is the most pathetic of all mistakes. If, however, you have made an unhappy marriage, why should you give permanency to wrong, and finality to suffering? There are no elements of reformation in the irrevocable, it is a hell without hope and without energy.

"5th. You must not judge your position near the twentieth century by the laws of Moses. The Church has gone back to them for authority to burn witches, and buy and sell slaves, and collect tithes, etc. We are come unto Bethlehem, and are not under the laws of Sinai. The laws of England are cruel enough to wives; there is no need to go back to Leviticus.

"6th. Christ truly said, 'What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.' What God joins together, no man can put asunder. Poverty, sorrow, care, shame, helplessness only draw the bond tighter. They go to the grave together, and with a noble constancy look across the grave to an immortal companionship.

"I dare say, my dear daughter, you have thought of all these things; think now of what good you can do each other by separation:

"1st. Robert is under wrong influences, while you are present to provoke them. Day by day he is learning to be more and more cruel. But when he has lost you, he will remember your sweetness and goodness, and long for you,

'For we never know the worth of a thing,
Until we have thrown it away.'

"2d. That evil old woman is growing constantly in all malice, cruelty, and sin. Be no longer an occasion for her wickedness.

"3d. You yourself are wasting your life in Doubting Castle. Hopeful found the key of it in his breast. Do likewise. You ought to be in the very height and glory of your existence. You are doing nothing, learning nothing, losing everything. Make a change; you cannot make it too quickly. It will probably ploughshare and harrow your heart, as the farmer ploughshares and harrows the field; but after this preparation, you can sow the seeds of your future happiness. Now all seed sowing is a mystery, whether in the heart, or in the field, but sow in love and in faith, and the harvest will truly better all your expectations. Think well over your movements, but do not think till you cannot act. Begin at once to prepare for what must be done, keeping in mind the good motto of the Eighty-seventh Regiment: 'Clear the Way!' sweep every fear and doubt out of it, all encumbrances of body or mind. Carry no old grudges or offences with you, no sad memories. Step out into the new way with a trusting, cheerful, childlike spirit, and be sure and take the Great Companion with you. Mother will write you to-morrow.

Your loving parents,

"John and Mary Newton."

This letter "cleared the way," for Theodora, and with the daring decision of fresh young faculties, she grasped the whole position confidently. She saw that she must, for the present, give up her husband—it was absolutely necessary and remedial. But she also saw a future with him that should redeem the whole unhappy past. She saw it, because from her long trial she had brought a three-edged spirit, tempered and polished by the fires of many afflictions; and an Inner Woman perfect—no member wanting, none sick or disabled, an Inner Woman full-grown, ready for any emergency, with time for everything human. She had also been much encouraged and strengthened by her father's prompt preparation, and she told herself, as she carefully destroyed the letter, that as the thing was to do, it were well to do it as soon as possible.

As if to urge her to this finality, her home became still more uncomfortable after Ducie's departure. Day after day passed, but no girl was hired in Ducie's place, and Mrs. Campbell's chambermaid never reached Theodora's rooms, until it was time for her to dress for dinner. Indeed, it appeared as if the girl had been ordered to wait until her presence would be the most annoying. And in a few days, the question of breakfast became a serious one. One morning Mrs. Campbell met McNab on the stairway with the tray containing Theodora's and David's breakfast in her hands. She looked angrily at the woman, and said in slow, positive words:

"Take that tray back to the kitchen!"

"It is Mrs. Campbell's and Master David's breakfast."

"Mrs. Robert can come to the breakfast table, as well as I can."

"And whar will Master David eat his mouthful? You hae said peremptor, he shallna eat at your board."

"He can eat with you—he can eat anywhere—or nowhere, for aught I care."

"Na, na! He will be Campbell o' the Campbell Iron Works yet, and he is beyond eating wi' serving-men and lasses. I will just tak' the tray up this morning, for my arms are aching wi' the weight o' it."

"You will just take the tray to the kitchen."

"That is the last order you will gie Flora McNab, ma'am."

"Your threat is an old one, McNab; I'm not fearing it."

"Nor me expecting you to be feared. When you dinna fear God Almighty, why would you be fearing the like o' me? Out o' the way then, and let me by you wi' the tray."

Very uncomfortable was the family breakfast that morning. Something was the matter with Jepson. Every dish was cold, and is there any food nastier than cold porridge and cold boiled fish? Robert grumbled over his plates, and Mrs. Campbell was equally cross, and still more explanatory of her temper. About the middle of the meal, McNab entered the room in her church bonnet, and her double Paisley shawl, pinned with its large Cairngorm brooch. Robert looked at her in amazement, and with a laugh that was not a pleasant one, asked:

"Where are you going, McNab, so early in the morning?"

"Back to the Hielands, sir. Pay me my wage, and I'll be awa' in time for the Perth train."

"You are not going to leave us?"

"That is just what I am going to do."

"Nonsense!"

"I'm not going to stop in this house, and see your wife and bonnie bairn starved for food. The poor bit laddie is crying the now, for his bread and milk, and your mother—wi' the hard heart o' her—willna let me gie either the bairn, or his mother a mouthfu'; so I am going back to the Hielands whar folks hae hearts—and Jepson is going likewise, and the twa lasses are going. Pay me my honest wages, Maister Campbell, for I'm in a hurry to get out o' hearing o' the starving baby, crying for his bowl o' milk."

"That will do, McNab. The Perth train does not leave until eleven o'clock. Go into the library, I want to speak to you, and take Jepson and the two girls there. I will come in a few minutes." He was obeyed without a word, for he spoke with that tone and manner which compelled even the leather-dressed, leather-masked men who fed his furnaces to cower before him.

When McNab and Jepson had left the room he turned to his mother and asked: "Am I to pay them, and send them away?"

"That would be unspeakable foolishness. I can not possibly do without McNab and Jepson. The two other hizzies can go if they want to."

"Then why do you meddle with McNab?"

"It is not her business to wait on your wife and child."

"Then whose business is it?"

"No one's, at present."

"Then see you find some one to-day whose business it will be to wait on them. If you do not, I will take my wife and child myself to the Victoria Hotel."

"I am fairly worn out with the quarrelling and trouble your wife and child make in the house. There is no pleasuring either of them. I have sent two girls to her, and she wouldn't give house-room to one, nor the other—decent girls, as I could find."

"One of them was drunk when she called, and the other had never cleaned a parlor, or made a bed in her life. It was kitchen work she wanted; and she spoke Gaelic better than English. See that a proper girl is hired to-day. It is an outrageous thing, to set me to sorting your servant girls' wrongs. I shall tell McNab to serve my wife and child, until a proper maid is found for them."

But such disputes as this, common as they were on every household subject, did not trouble Theodora, as they did when she had to face a permanence of them. She knew now they would soon be over. They were passing away with every hour. Besides this consideration, a great event in life takes all importance out of small events, and she was so occupied with the total change approaching her, that the trifle of Mrs. Campbell's temper, or injustice did not seem to be much worth minding. Her cheerfulness and good temper was an amazing thing to Mrs. Campbell, who not understanding its reason, set it down to "Dora's aggravating ways."

"She thinks it annoys me," she said to Isabel, "she thinks it annoys me to appear so indifferent to my just anger, but she has to thole it anyway, and I'll wager, she likes it no better for all her smiling and singing to herself."

But Mrs. Campbell's just anger had now lost all its importance to Theodora, for every one was practically ready for the change, though the end of April was the date fixed unless some good or evil event sanctioned an earlier movement.

This event came unexpectedly, and in a different direction from any anticipated. Robert left home one morning about the twenty-second of April very uncomfortably. His mother had been complaining bitterly of David's restlessness at night. She said he must be removed to the upper floor. She was astonished that a boy of his age should want to sleep near his mother. He must sleep beside Dora's maid for the future. She could not have her sleep broken, at her time of life it meant serious illness—and so on.

After breakfast Robert spoke to his wife on the subject, and he was amazed at the spirit she displayed. She said "David was sick last night. I was fighting croup from midnight until dawn, and you know, Robert, how alarmingly subject to this terrible disease he is. How could he be left to a tired girl's care? She would not have heard that first hoarse cry last night, and we might have found him dead this morning—strangled all alone in the darkness. No! he shall not leave me, or if you say he must go to the servants' floor, then I will go too."

With this subject still in abeyance Robert left her. Then Mrs. Campbell sent servants to remove the boy's cot to the maid's room, and Theodora positively refused to allow its removal, sending the men away, and then locking her doors. She was quivering with fear and feeling, when Robert unexpectedly returned home. He said the mail had brought him bad news. He had been informed that Sykes and Company of Sheffield—who were heavily indebted to him—had failed, and he must go to Sheffield at once. He told Theodora to pack his valise for a two weeks' stay, while he went into the city for a certain accountant, whom he proposed to take with him, in order to examine the books of the delinquent firm.

"Pack my valise for a two weeks' stay." The poor wife trembled through all her being. It was the order for her own departure. The packing of his valise would be the last act of the sorrowful drama of her marriage. It was the last time she would ever do him the service. The last time! Every garment had a tragic look. She touched them tenderly. Her unchecked tears dropped upon them. If it was not for David's sake, she doubted whether she could carry out her intentions—but her child, her child! They wanted even now to separate them in their home, in a few weeks they might take him entirely away from her. His old enemy Croup would find him alone in the dark and some dreadful night strangle him. He would be punished for faults he did not even understand, flogged, deprived of food and companionship, tormented by cruel boys older than himself—oh, she could not bear to continue her reflections, for the boy's sake she must leave his father. And then a kind of anger at the father followed in the steps of her grief. If she could have trusted his father to defend him in all cases, it need not have been; but she could see, even in the dispute concerning his sleeping-place, his father was inclined to stand by the cruel wish of the grandmother.

Oh, but the packing of that valise was a hard task! And when it was strapped and locked, it seemed almost to reproach her. She was sitting gazing at it, when Robert entered the room and caught the look of love and despair which filled her eyes, and saddened her face and her attitude. In spite of himself it flattered him. He was astonished at her devotion, but it comforted him. His mother had been angry when she heard of Sykes and Company's failure. She had reminded him of her advice to have nothing to do with them—had told him "Sykes looked shifty and rascally, and her words had come true, and perhaps he would believe her next time she gave him good advice." But Theodora had been full of sympathy, and had given him only kind and encouraging words.

His manner was so unusually gentle, that she ventured to say: "I am afraid to be left here without you, Robert. They will take David from me, or I shall have a fight to keep him. It hurts me so, dear, what am I to do? Will you tell mother to let David's sleeping-place alone until you come back?"

He was silent for a moment, then he answered: "Take David and go and see your own father and mother. You could stay ten or twelve days. When I am ready to come home, I will telegraph you to meet me at Crewe Station, then we can make the journey back together."

"Oh, Robert, Robert! Oh, you dear Robert! What a joy that will be to David and myself! How shall I thank you?"

"Never mind the thanks. Now I must go. I have not a minute to spare."

"Davie is in the next room."

He went to the child's cot, and stood a moment looking at him. He was not yet recovered from the night's awful struggle, but he opened his eyes and stretched upward his arms, and Robert could not resist the silent appeal. Thank God, O thank God, he stooped and kissed him, and felt the little arms around his neck in a way that amazed him! Then he looked at Theodora and lifted his valise. The carriage was at the door, his mother was hurrying him, he said: "Good-bye, Dora. I will telegraph you about Crewe."

"Thank you, Robert. Please say so before mother, or she may try to prevent my going." Her eyes were fixed on him. There was a piteous entreaty in them—would he not kiss and embrace her also? Oh, if he knew it was the last time! If he only knew it! The thought was full of passionate longing. He could not but feel it. He was just going to take her hand, when Mrs. Campbell opened the door and said fretfully:

"You will miss your train, Robert—delaying and delaying for nothing at all."

"I was telling Dora to go home on Friday, and see her parents for twelve days or more. I will meet her at Crewe, and we shall come home together."

"Very well. I'll be gey and thankful to have the house to ourselves for a few days—or forever."

Robert was hastening to the carriage and did not hear her reply, but when it was about to move, he bent forward and looked at the door he was leaving. Theodora stood on the steps. Her heart was in her eyes, her hands clasped above her breast. She saw him bend forward, and leaned towards him smiling. Never throughout all his life days did he forget that last glimpse of the beautiful woman who that morning watched him out of her sight. When he was quite gone she turned into the house with that sense of completeness so essential even to the sorrowful. She had seen the last of her husband. The bitterness of the separation was over. She went to Davie and let him comfort her, then she dressed the boy, and left him in the care of McNab; for she knew that she must go to Mrs. Oliphant's without delay. The door had been set wide open for them, and they must make the best of the opportunity; or perhaps lose their lucky hour forever.

Fortunately David Campbell was at Mrs. Oliphant's, having returned from Edinburgh not ten minutes previously. He heard Theodora's tidings with a calm pleasure. "We are ready," he said. "Your father and mother have been in Glasgow for a week. They are boarding at a house in Monteith Row, a pretty locality on Glasgow Green."

"Oh, David, were you not afraid?"

"Not at all," he answered, "the Campbells are exclusive West-Enders. They would be as likely to go near Monteith Row as to go to Ashantee. Your parents are known as Mr. and Mrs. Bell. You must not try to see them until you meet on the steamer."

"Very well. When shall we sail?"

"This is Tuesday. The Anchor Line have a good boat sailing at noon, Saturday. Can you be ready?"

"Easily. About your daughters?"

"They are ready. They will be here Friday, or perhaps Thursday. Now I will go and secure the four best staterooms possible. I shall take them in the name of Kennedy—and that will be our name, until we reach New York."

Theodora remained with Mrs. Oliphant until David returned with the tickets for the four staterooms. She felt then, that there was no reprieve, and that her first duty now was to be as cheerful and brave as she ought to be. On reaching home, she found that David's cot had been carried to the maid's room, but she made no complaint. The fact swept away all doubts and misgivings; it was the last injustice, the last cruelty that could be inflicted, and it was a vain one, for David could sleep with her, until the end came.

On the following morning, she asked Jepson to send to her room the smallest of her trunks, and she put into it a few things belonging to her girlhood's life—her music, her textbooks, a novel she had nearly finished writing, and the beautiful linen she had made and embroidered with her own hands for her marriage outfit. Two dresses were all that remained of the gowns bought at this date. These she took with her. In her hand she would carry a Gladstone bag with toilet necessities, and plenty of clean white waists and collars for David and herself. Their suits, bought with reference to this necessity, were of dark blue cloth; David's made into his first breeches and jacket, and Theodora's in the simplest manner possible, but as Mrs. Campbell said to Isabel:

"Plain, of course. But look at the lines and the make o' it! Menzie's cutting and fitting no doubt. It cost five guineas to make that dress and the cloak with it. She's a wasteful creature."

"Robert said she bought it herself, and——"

"So she ought, so she ought! And the boy dressed up in broadcloth and linen waists! A few yards of lindsey would be more fitting."

"Mother, he is a beautiful boy."

"Is he? I cannot see myself where his beauty comes in."

During the next two days Theodora employed herself in folding carefully away all her clothing, and locking it up in its proper drawers. Her jewels she packed separately, and with a letter, put into McNab's charge, requesting her to give them to Mr. Campbell, if she did not return with him. When Friday morning came, she rose early, dressed herself and David, and was ready for the train that left just about the time the Campbell breakfast was served. In this way, she hoped to escape the presence of Jepson, whom she feared might be told to accompany her. On the contrary, Mrs. Campbell grumbled at Jepson for helping the coachman with her trunk, and the only question she asked was: "What road did she take, Jepson?"

"The Caledonian, ma'am," was the answer.

"Hum-m-m! I thought so."

"Has she gone?" said Isabel.

"Yes, and a good riddance of her."

"Oh, mother, and none of us bid her good-bye, or wished her a pleasant time. I intended to go to the train with her—now I have missed——"

"Making a fool of yourself. That is all you have missed."

"What train would Mrs. Campbell take, Jepson?"

"The nine o'clock train, I suppose, miss."

But Theodora did not take the nine o'clock train. She gave a porter a shilling to care for her trunk, and watched an hour in a waiting-room. No one suspicious appearing, she requested the porter to call a cab, and put her trunk upon it, and then without fear or hurry, she drove to a certain store, where David Campbell was waiting. He went with her at once to the pier of the Anchor Line, where they left her trunk to be placed with the rest of the Kennedy luggage in the hold. "And now, where will you hide yourself until to-morrow morning, Theodora?" he asked kindly.

"Mrs. Oliphant——"

"No. She wants you, but I told her it could not be. Her servants will be closely questioned, no doubt."

"I see."

"The steamer touches at Greenock. Get a room in the Tontine Inn. Have your food served in your room, and keep quiet until you walk down to meet the steamer."

"I will do so. It is the best plan."

So they went to the railway station, and David Campbell put them into a comfortable carriage for Greenock. "You will see your father and mother to-morrow," he said. "They are as happy as two little children over the journey. It is a great event for them, and they are talking of their little grandson continually. They long to see him."

Theodora hardly knew what was being said to her. She was in a kind of dreamlike state—a state, however, in which no mistakes are ever made. The Inner Woman had control, and she had quite resigned herself to its leading. "David and I will meet the steamer in the morning. Be on the watch for us, brother," she said.

"I will. You will go to the Tontine?"

"Certainly."

"And if they should not have room for you there, then go to the——"

"I will go to the Tontine. There is a room ready for me there."

He looked at her kindly and understood. Those who have watched long, solemn nights away with the Beloved One, slowly dying, know something beyond the lines of science, or the teachings of creeds. He said good-bye to her, without a fear of any mistake.

At Greenock she found the prepared room in the Tontine, and she made herself and little Davie comfortable, and then ordered their dinner to be brought to them. She was glad of this pause in her affairs, and long after Davie was asleep, she sat pondering the past and the future. At first she was dazed and half-unbelieving of the great event that had taken place in her life. In the darkness of the room, she fell into short sleeps, and kept feeling around in the darkness of her mind to learn what troubled her, until suddenly, in cruel starts from sleep, her sorrow found her out.

But this is the depth in our nature, where the divine and human are one. Here, in our weakness and weariness, we are visited by the Upholder of the tranquil soul, and words wonderful and secret, cheer the weary and heavy-laden; for God has royal compassions for the broken in heart. Theodora awoke in the morning full of hope, and in one of her most cheerful moods. The road no longer frightened her, the ocean no longer separated her. She had wings now for all the chasms of life, and when she opened a little book for a word to clear the way, and the day, she cried out joyfully, for this was her message:

At the time appointed the steamer reached Greenock, she was there to meet it, and David Campbell was at the gangway watching for her. There was a crowd of incomers and outgoers, and David was glad of it, for Theodora with her child reached their stateroom without notice from any one. There she found her father and mother, and the joy and wonder of that meeting may well be left to the imagination.

It had been decided, that until David found out whether any of the passengers were sitters in Dr. Robertson's church, or people from any circumstance likely to know Theodora, she should remain in seclusion; but in a couple of days, David had clearly established the safety of her appearance; and after that assurance, she was constantly on deck with the rest of the party. All the way across the Atlantic they had a blue sky, a blue sea, sunshine, and good company; and one morning they were awakened by some one calling "Land! Land in sight!" and hastening on deck they stood together watching their approach to the low-lying shores of that New World which held for them the promise of a happy home and a prosperous future.