By ten o'clock on Monday morning Brian North had earned a holiday. He had been up and working since the small hours, but instead of going back to his lodgings to rest, he hurried to a station and took train for Beverbridge. Catherine's letter had been brought to him, and had made a precious interlude to his occupation. Generally he was as busy in the evening as in the morning, but his other occupation had been taken away from him,—a loss which he was obliged to regret, although it had obtained him an opportunity for a few days' holiday in the neighbourhood of Catherine Carmichael.

Had she been in London, Brian would have remained there, too; so when the landscape began to be green, and the buildings few, and the sky showed a clear expanse above, his spirits revived with his gratitude for the fact that his dear girl was in the country. The fresh pure air strengthened him already.

Beverbridge was a long journey from town, but he found time pass pleasantly, as he leaned back close to the open window, and let his thoughts rove over the subject of Catherine's perfections. There would be need to ponder over the question how to gain some new work, how secure a prize in an overcrowded amphitheatre, since his marriage would be delayed until he could earn not only a sufficient income to provide a home, but also a small sum 'laid by' as provision for 'rainy days.'

Brian was resolved not to persuade Catherine to make an improvident marriage; he had seen much misery resulting from such folly, and his love for her was deep enough to make his plans unselfish.

There was a smile on his lips as he sat thinking, alone in the railway carriage—the smile which thoughts of Catherine always created. Tired, disappointed, harassed though he was, his life was blessed by a great happiness, and but for the fear of being guilty of hypocrisy, he would have thanked God for it.

These were the doubts which prompted the fear: 'Was he not supposed to be resigned to any possible manifestation of God's will? Without this resignation would not gratitude be guilty of mockery, since the Creator possessed undoubtedly the right to take, as well as to give? How could he honestly thank God for the gift of Catherine, if he were not prepared also to acknowledge God's right to take Catherine from him?

It may be thought that Brian was too sincere with himself in this matter. The girl he loved was strong and healthy, and likely, humanly speaking, to live to a good old age. But he was essentially thorough, and now that he was groping after the light, he was anxious to invite it to shine into every corner of his heart. He had already perceived that religion must be all or nothing, a sham or a whole, so that he could not rest content with any reservations.

If he was to love God, then to the Creator must be given more love than to the creature. Human tenderness and sympathy do not enter into the devotion that a soul must cherish for its Maker. He was not so foolish as to expect to feel the same impulses of longing for a vision of God, for instance, as it was natural for him to feel for the presence of Catherine; but he was not able yet to give the love which is commanded, the perfect acknowledgment of God as Author of all good, the resignation of praying 'Thy will be done,' of owning 'Thy will must be best,' and the confidence of leaving the future entirely, gladly, in God's care.

Brian often worried about the future. His health suffered from the feverish manner in which he pursued Fortune—all for Catherine's sake. As a youth he had fretted for fame; now he spent his life in restlessly striving after money and a secured position.

His pale, lined face, the grey hairs threading the dark curls over his temples, and his sunken eager eyes, proclaimed his want of peace.

There was no one but a porter in the little Beverbridge station when Brian arrived. Just as he was calling the man to take charge of his bag, and to direct him to a respectable inn, he chanced to look up at the bridge which spanned the rail. A tall girl standing, holding a little boy in her arms—Catherine herself!

Lovers' eyes are seldom deceived in such cases. Catherine, out for a walk with Ted and Toddie, had brought them within the precincts of the railway, not only because the small folks delighted in the sight of 'a big puffing engine,' but also because there was a possibility that Brian might come down to-day by the London express.

Her beaming smile as she gazed down at him over the parapet of the bridge was the cause of sympathetic beams upon his face.

'That gentleman is—a great friend of mine, Ted and Toddie!' she cried exultantly.

'How nice!' said Ted. 'He must be nice if you like him, Carr.'

'He's comin' up. Oh, poor, poor man! Is he ill, Carr?'

'No, dears, only hard-worked; and he lives in smoky dark London.'

By this time Brian had mounted the steps and emerged through the doorway on to the bridge.

Catherine had put down the child, so she put both her hands into Brian's, and so they stood for a few minutes, smiling, silent, looking into one another's eyes, in delicious contentment at having met once more.

Then the woman's practical mind read the significance of the presence of a bag.

'You are come, and you haven't got to go away again yet!'

'I may spend three days in Beverbridge, dear.'

'God is good!' was Catherine's simple answer.

'I'm Ted Arderne,' announced a little voice.

'And I'm Toddie,' said another.

Brian responded warmly to the children's greeting, gave Ted his umbrella to play with, and made Toddie laugh at the energy with which he shouldered his bag. Together they went along the quiet country road and through the pretty village, Brian delighting in the autumnal crispness of the wind and in the beauty of the unpretentious scenery.

'Did you expect me, Catherine?' he asked.

'I only hoped for you.'

Mrs. Arderne welcomed Brian most kindly. True, she did not think that in becoming engaged to him Catherine had acted wisely, but her womanly instinct was aroused to take benevolent interest in a love affair. She could not help being prepossessed in Brian's favour by the first glimpse of his expressive, clever-looking, worn face. And the manner in which she showed her kindness was the best evidence she could have given of her sympathy.

'I will take care of the children,' she said. 'You and Mr. North can have a quiet half-hour in the garden before lunch. You must have reams to say to each other.'

So Catherine led him out, and they strolled up and down the narrow gravel paths, under the gnarled branches of venerable apple trees, in and out among the flower beds, and past the vegetables. Then he began to tell her about his troubles.

'You are much poorer, then, than you were?' she said quickly, glancing at his face. 'And I might have helped you—I mean, I might have schemed to gain a fortune—and I won't even try to do so. Brian, tell me all that is in your heart now, all the thoughts that came to you when you read my long letter.'

'I love and admire my dear brave girl more than ever. When I had read her letter all through, I told myself that she was a woman in a thousand, that it was a privilege indeed to be allowed to work for her. Then, if you want a complete account, I smiled over the description of Uncles Ross and Jack, and reflected, "What a first-rate old chap the colonel must be!"'

'Did you? I'm glad. You must love him. And you do not in the very least wee bit blame me for having accepted the home he offered me?'

'No, Catherine; I would have you happy and free to follow your own ideal. We should neither of us know much happiness, my dear one, if we were a rich relative's pensioners, obliged to humour all his whims, and keep silent when we disapproved of his practices.'

'You are—just the Brian I knew you were!' she exclaimed gratefully.

'Only poorer.'

'A new post will be found some day. Meanwhile you will have a badly-needed rest!'

'The literary labour-market is fearfully overcrowded, Catherine. I doubt if I shall obtain more employment,—not before Christmas, at all events. Every week of idleness postpones our wedding day.'

'God will help us, even in worldly matters, if we ask Him to, and if we trust Him, dearest. Tell me, have you thought, as you promised to think? Have you studied your Bible? Have you prayed for faith?'

'Yes, to all three questions. I do believe, but my new faith is not strong enough to stand some tests I have put it to—one test especially.'

'What is it?'

'If God took you away from me, Cath, I could not forgive Him.'

'Yet God gave me to you. But for His will we should never have crossed one another's paths, never loved one another.'

'That truth would in no way minimise the loss we are supposing.'

'If I were to die, you would not wish that we had never loved one another?'

'No, no!'

'Then, by your own admission, God would have conferred a boon upon you, even if He had done that which, in thought, appals you.'

'The apparent cruelty of His will would not be less.'

'You are not rebellious now because we are parted for weeks together, Brian.'

'Because I am hoping for a time when we shall be always together, dearest.'

She smiled radiantly.

'Ah! you have answered your own doubt! Life is only as a day compared with eternity. What though God, for some wise and good purpose, were to part us on earth! has He not promised an everlasting home of perfect happiness after life? Oh, dear boy, let us praise Him every hour for the gift of love He has generously bestowed on us. Don't let us use His gift to deny Him! Besides, it is wrong for a weak human creature to consider persistently and hopelessly all the possible sorrows of his future. God has promised not to fail us, to send us grace sufficient for the differing needs of every crisis. We can't expect to be brave in advance, but we must trust Him to give us our "daily bread."'

'You mean that if God takes you from me some day, He will give me strength to bear the blow?'

'Yes, dear; that is certain.'

'And I am no hypocrite if I thank Him for a gift which I cannot yet bear the thought of His recalling?'

'Not if you try honestly to pray, as He taught us, "Thy will be done." That does not mean that you think yourself ready, unaided, to bear the blow, only that you admit His right to do as He pleases with His own creations, and that you believe His will to be designed for our highest welfare.'

Brian sighed, as a man does from whom a great trouble has departed.

'I will believe that God is good, therefore that He is merciful to the weakness of His servants. My faith grows stronger when you teach me, Catherine.'