The Girl from Montana

by Grace Livingston Hill

  CHAPTER XVII

  A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT

  "George," said Mrs. Vincent Benedict, "I want you to do something for me."

  "Certainly, mother, anything I can."

  "Well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. Our pastor's wife hastelephoned me that she wants us very much. She especially emphasized you.She said she absolutely needed you. It was a case of charity, and shewould be so grateful to you if you would come. She has a young friend withher who is very sad, and she wants to cheer her up. Now don't frown. Iwon't bother you again this week. I know you hate dinners and girls. Butreally, George, this is an unusual case. The girl is just home fromEurope, and buried her grandmother yesterday. She hasn't a soul in theworld belonging to her that can be with her, and the pastor's wife hasasked her over to dinner quietly. Of course she isn't going out. She mustbe in mourning. And you know you're fond of the doctor."

  "Yes, I'm fond of the doctor," said George, frowning discouragedly; "butI'd rather take him alone, and not with a girl flung at me everlastingly.I'm tired of it. I didn't think it of Christian people, though; I thoughtshe was above such things."

  "Now, George," said his mother severely, "that's a real insult to thegirl, and to our friend too. She hasn't an idea of doing any such thing.It seems this girl is quite unusual, very religious, and our friendthought you would be just the one to cheer her. She apologized severaltimes for presuming to ask you to help her. You really will have to go."

  "Well, who is this paragon, anyway? Any one I know? I s'pose I've got togo."

  "Why, she's a Miss Bailey," said the mother, relieved. "Mrs. WiltonMerrill Bailey's granddaughter. Did you ever happen to meet her? I neverdid."

  "Never heard of her," growled George. "Wish I hadn't now."

  "George!"

  "Well, mother, go on. I'll be good. What does she do? Dance, and playbridge, and sing?"

  "I haven't heard anything that she does," said his mother, laughing.

  "Well, of course she's a paragon they all are, mother. I'll be ready inhalf an hour. Let's go and get it done. We can come home early, can't we?"

  Mrs. Benedict sighed. If only George would settle down on some suitablegirl of good family! But he was so queer and restless. She was afraid forhim. Ever since she had taken him away to Europe, when she was so ill, shehad been afraid for him. He seemed so moody and absent-minded then andafterwards. Now this Miss Bailey was said to be as beautiful as she wasgood. If only George would take a notion to her!

  Elizabeth was sitting in a great arm-chair by the open fire when heentered the room. He had not expected to find any one there. He heardvoices up-stairs, and supposed Miss Bailey was talking with her hostess.His mother followed the servant to remove her wraps, and he entered thedrawing-room alone. She stirred, looked up, and saw him.

  "Elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her hand. "I have foundyou again. How came you here?"

  But she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies entered almost atonce, and there stood the two smiling at each other.

  "Why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. "How delighted I am! Iknew you two would enjoy meeting. Elizabeth, child, you never told me youknew George."

  George Benedict kept looking around for Miss Bailey to enter the room; butto his relief she did not come, and, when they went out to thedining-room, there was no place set for her. She must have preferred toremain at home. He forgot her, and settled down to the joy of havingElizabeth by his side. His mother, opposite, watched his face blossom intothe old-time joy as he handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes forno one else.

  It was to Elizabeth a blessed evening. They held sweet converse one withanother as children of the King. For a little time under the old influenceof the restful, helpful talk she forgot "the lady," and all the perplexingquestions that had vexed her soul. She knew only that she had entered intoan atmosphere of peace and love and joy.

  It was not until the evening was over, and the guests were about to leave,that Mrs. Benedict addressed Elizabeth as Miss Bailey. Up to that momentit had not entered her son's mind that Miss Bailey was present at all. Heturned with a start, and looked into Elizabeth's eyes; and she smiled backto him as if to acknowledge the name. Could she read his thoughts? hewondered.

  It was only a few steps across the Square, and Mrs. Benedict and her sonwalked to Elizabeth's door with her. He had no opportunity to speak toElizabeth alone, but he said as he bade her good-night, "I shall see youto-morrow, then, in the morning?"

  The inflection was almost a question but Elizabeth only said, "Goodnight," and vanished into the house.

  "Then you have met her before, George?" asked his mother wonderingly.

  "Yes," he answered hurriedly, as if to stop her further question. "Yes, Ihave met her before. She is very beautiful, mother."

  And because the mother was afraid she might say too much she assented, andheld her peace. It was the first time in years that George had called agirl beautiful.

  Meantime Elizabeth had gone to her own room and locked the door. Shehardly knew what to think, her heart was so happy. Yet beneath it all wasthe troubled thought of the lady, the haunting lady for whom they hadprayed together on the prairie. And as if to add to the thought she founda bit of newspaper lying on the floor beside her dressing-table. Mariemust have dropped it as she came in to turn up the lights. It was nothingbut the corner torn from a newspaper, and should be consigned to thewaste-basket; yet her eye caught the words in large head-lines as shepicked it up idly, "Miss Geraldine Loring's Wedding to Be an ElaborateAffair." There was nothing more readable. The paper was torn in a zigzagline just beneath. Yet that was enough. It reminded her of her duty.

  Down beside the bed she knelt, and prayed: "O my Father, hide me now; hideme! I am in trouble; hide me!" Over and over she prayed till her heartgrew calm and she could think.

  Then she sat down quietly, and put the matter before her.

  This man whom she loved with her whole soul was to be married in a fewdays. The world of society would be at the wedding. He was pledged toanother, and he was not hers. Yet he was her old friend, and was coming tosee her. If he came and looked into her face with those clear eyes of his,he might read in hers that she loved him. How dreadful that would be!

  Yes, she must search yet deeper. She had heard the glad ring in his voicewhen he met her, and said, "Elizabeth!" She had seen his eyes. He was indanger himself. She knew it; she might not hide it from herself. She musthelp him to be true to the woman to whom he was pledged, whom now he wouldhave to marry.

  She must go away from it all. She would run away, now at once. It seemedthat she was always running away from some one. She would go back to themountains where she had started. She was not afraid now of the man fromwhom she had fled. Culture and education had done their work. Religion hadset her upon a rock. She could go back with the protection that her moneywould put about her, with the companionship of some good, elderly woman,and be safe from harm in that way; but she could not stay here and meetGeorge Benedict in the morning, nor face Geraldine Loring on herwedding-day. It would be all the same the facing whether she were in thewedding-party or not. Her days of mourning for her grandmother would ofcourse protect her from this public facing. It was the thought she couldnot bear. She must get away from it all forever.

  Her lawyers should arrange the business. They would purchase the housethat Grandmother Brady desired, and then give her her money to build achurch. She would go back, and teach among the lonely wastes of mountainand prairie what Jesus Christ longed to be to the people made in Hisimage. She would go back and place above the graves of her father andmother and brothers stones that should bear the words of life to all whoshould pass by in that desolate region. And that should be her excuse tothe world for going, if she needed any excuse--she had gone to see aboutplacing a monument over her father's grave. But the monument should be achurch somewhere where it was most needed. She was resolved upon that.

  That was a busy night. Marie was
called upon to pack a few things for ahurried journey. The telephone rang, and the sleepy night-operatoranswered crossly. But Elizabeth found out all she wanted to know about theearly Chicago trains, and then lay down to rest.

  Early the next morning George Benedict telephoned for some flowers fromthe florist; and, when they arrived, he pleased himself by taking them toElizabeth's door.

  He did not expect to find her up, but it would be a pleasure to have themreach her by his own hand. They would be sent up to her room, and shewould know in her first waking thought that he remembered her. He smiledas he touched the bell and stood waiting.

  The old butler opened the door. He looked as if he had not fully finishedhis night's sleep. He listened mechanically to the message, "For MissBailey with Mr. Benedict's good-morning," and then his face took on adeprecatory expression.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Benedict," he said, as if in the matter he were personallyto blame; "but she's just gone. Miss Elizabeth's mighty quick in her ways,and last night after she come home she decided to go to Chicago on theearly train. She's just gone to the station not ten minutes ago. They waslate, and had to hurry. I'm expecting the footman back every minute."

  "Gone?" said George Benedict, standing blankly on the door-step andlooking down the street as if that should bring her. "Gone? To Chicago,did you say?"

  "Yes, sir, she's gone to Chicago. That is, she's going further, but shetook the Chicago Limited. She's gone to see about a monument for Madam'sson John, Miss 'Lizabuth's father. She said she must go at once, and shewent."

  "What time does that train leave?" asked the young man. It was a thread ofhope. He was stung into a superhuman effort as he had been on the prairiewhen he had caught the flying vision of the girl and horse, and he hadshouted, and she would not stop for him.

  "Nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. He wished this excited young man wouldgo after her. She needed some one. His heart had often stirred againstfate that this pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate friendor lover now in her loneliness.

  "Nine-fifty!" He looked at his watch. No chance! "Broad Street?" he askedsharply.

  "Yes, sir."

  Would there be a chance if he had his automobile? Possibly, but hardlyunless the train was late. There would be a trifle more chance of catchingthe train at West Philadelphia. O for his automobile! He turned to thebutler in despair.

  "Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board thetrain, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." Hestarted down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go?The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would beuseless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down towardChestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him."O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"

  Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile,sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedictstopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him overon the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted:"Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say,but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway?Hustle in, and I'll take you there."

  The young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: "West Philadelphiastation, Chicago Limited! Hurry! Train leaves Broad Street station atnine-fifty. Get me there if you can, Billy. I'll be your friend forever."

  By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time toconsider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine washeaded toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws orvainly shouting policemen.

  George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fellagain. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore intothe station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of theticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up threesteps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's juststarting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on theplatform of the last car.

  For an instant after he was safely in the car he was too dazed to think.It seemed as if he must keep on blindly rushing through that train all theway to Chicago, or she would get away from him. He sat down in an emptyseat for a minute to get his senses. He was actually on the train! It hadnot gone without him!

  Now the next question was, Was she on it herself, or had she in some wayslipped from his grasp even yet? The old butler might have caught her bytelephone. He doubted it. He knew her stubborn determination, and all atonce he began to suspect that she was with intention running away fromhim, and perhaps had been doing so before! It was an astonishing thoughtand a grave one, yet, if it were true, what had meant that welcoming smilein her eyes that had been like dear sunshine to his heart?

  But there was no time to consider such questions now. He had started onthis quest, and he must continue it until he found her. Then she should bemade to explain once and for all most fully. He would live through no moretorturing agonies of separation without a full understanding of thematter. He got upon his shaking feet, and started to hunt for Elizabeth.

  Then all at once he became aware that he was still carrying the box offlowers. Battered and out of shape it was, but he was holding it as if itheld the very hope of life for him. He smiled grimly as he totteredshakily down the aisle, grasping his floral offering with determination.This was not exactly the morning call he had planned, nor the way he hadexpected to present his flowers; but it seemed to be the best he could do.Then, at last, in the very furthest car from the end, in the drawing-roomhe found her, sitting gray and sorrowful, looking at the fast-flyinglandscape.

  "Elizabeth!" He stood in the open door and called to her; and she startedas from a deep sleep, her face blazing into glad sunshine at sight of him.She put her hand to her heart, and smiled.

  "I have brought you some flowers," he said grimly. "I am afraid thereisn't much left of them now; but, such as they are, they are here. I hopeyou will accept them."

  "Oh!" gasped Elizabeth, reaching out for the poor crushed roses as if theyhad been a little child in danger. She drew them from the battered box andto her arms with a delicious movement of caressing, as if she would makeup to them for all they had come through. He watched her, half pleased,half savagely. Why should all that tenderness be wasted on mere fadingflowers?

  At last he spoke, interrupting her brooding over his roses.

  "You are running away from me!" he charged.

  "Well, and what if I am?" She looked at him with a loving defiance in hereyes.

  "Don't you know I love you?" he asked, sitting down beside her and talkinglow and almost fiercely. "Don't you know I've been torn away from you, oryou from me, twice before now, and that I cannot stand it any more? Say,don't you know it? Answer, please," The demand was kind, but peremptory.

  "I was afraid so," she murmured with drooping eyes, and cheeks from whichall color had fled.

  "Well, why do you do it? Why did you run away? Don't you care for me? Tellme that. If you can't ever love me, you are excusable; but I must know itall now."

  "Yes, I care as much as you," she faltered, "but----"

  "But what?" sharply.

  "But you are going to be married this week," she said in desperation,raising her miserable eyes to his.

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  "Am I?" said he. "Well, that's news to me; but it's the best news I'veheard in a long time. When does the ceremony come off? I wish it was thismorning. Make it this morning, will you? Let's stop this blessed old trainand go back to the Doctor. He'll fix it so we can't ever run away fromeach other again. Elizabeth, look at me!"

  But Elizabeth hid her eyes now. They were full of tears.

  "But the lady--" she gasped out, struggling with the sobs. She was soweary, and the thought of what he had suggested was so precious.

  "What lady? There is
no lady but you, Elizabeth, and never has been.Haven't you known that for a long time? I have. That was all ahallucination of my foolish brain. I had to go out on the plains to getrid of it, but I left it there forever. She was nothing to me after I sawyou."

  "But--but people said--and it was in the paper, I saw it. You cannotdesert her now; it would be dishonorable."

  "Thunder!" ejaculated the distracted young man. "In the paper! What lady?"

  "Why, Miss Loring! Geraldine Loring. I saw that the preparations were allmade for her wedding, and I was told she was to marry you."

  In sheer relief he began to laugh.

  At last he stopped, as the old hurt look spread over her face.

  "Excuse me, dear," he said gently, "There was a little acquaintancebetween Miss Loring and myself. It only amounted to a flirtation on herpart, one of many. It was a great distress to my mother, and I went outWest, as you know, to get away from her. I knew she would only bring meunhappiness, and she was not willing to give up some of her ways that wereimpossible. I am glad and thankful that God saved me from her. I believeshe is going to marry a distant relative of mine by the name of Benedict,but I thank the kind Father that I am not going to marry her. There isonly one woman in the whole wide world that I am willing to marry, or everwill be; and she is sitting beside me now."

  The train was going rapidly now. It would not be long before the conductorwould reach them. The man leaned over, and clasped the little gloved handthat lay in the girl's lap; and Elizabeth felt the great joy that hadtantalized her for these three years in dreams and visions settle downabout her in beautiful reality. She was his now forever. She need neverrun away again.

  The conductor was not long in coming to them, and the matter-of-fact worldhad to be faced once more. The young man produced his card, and said a fewwords to the conductor, mentioning the name of his uncle, who, by the way,happened to be a director of the road; and then he explained thesituation. It was very necessary that the young lady be recalled at onceto her home because of a change in the circumstances. He had caught thetrain at West Philadelphia by automobile, coming as he was in his morningclothes, without baggage and with little money. Would the conductor be sokind as to put them off that they might return to the city by the shortestpossible route?

  The conductor glared and scolded, and said people "didn't know their ownminds," and "wanted to move the earth." Then he eyed Elizabeth, and shesmiled. He let a grim glimmer of what might have been a sour smile yearsago peep out for an instant, and--he let them off.

  They wandered delightedly about from one trolley to another until theyfound an automobile garage, and soon were speeding back to Philadelphia.

  They waited for no ceremony, these two who had met and loved by the way inthe wilderness. They went straight to Mrs. Benedict for her blessing, andthen to the minister to arrange for his services; and within the week aquiet wedding-party entered the arched doors of the placid brown churchwith the lofty spire, and Elizabeth Bailey and George Benedict were unitedin the sacred bonds of matrimony.

  There were present Mrs. Benedict and one or two intimate friends of thefamily, besides Grandmother Brady, Aunt Nan, and Lizzie.

  Lizzie brought a dozen bread-and-butter-plates from the ten-cent store.They were adorned with cupids and roses and much gilt. But Lizzie wasdisappointed. No display, no pomp and ceremony. Just a simple white dressand white veil. Lizzie did not understand that the veil had been in theBailey family for generations, and that the dress was an heirloom also. Itwas worn because Grandmother Bailey had given it to her, and told her shewanted her to wear it on her wedding-day. Sweet and beautiful she lookedas she turned to walk down the aisle on her husband's arm, and she smiledat Grandmother Brady in a way that filled the grandmother's heart withpride and triumph. Elizabeth was not ashamed of the Bradys even among herfine friends. But Lizzie grumbled all the way home at the plainness of theceremony, and the lack of bridesmaids and fuss and feathers.

  The social column of the daily papers stated that young Mr. and Mrs.George Benedict were spending their honeymoon in an extended tour of theWest, and Grandmother Brady so read it aloud at the breakfast table to theadmiring family. Only Lizzie looked discontented:

  "She just wore a dark blue tricotine one-piece dress and a little plaindark hat. She ain't got a bit of taste. Oh _Boy_! If I just had her pocketbook wouldn't I show the world? But anyhow I'm glad she went in a privatecar. There was a _little_ class to her, though if t'had been mine I'd uvpreferred ridin' in the parlor coach an' havin' folks see me and my finehusband. He's some looker, George Benedict is! Everybody turns to watch'em as they go by, and they just sail along and never seem to notice. It'sall perfectly throwed away on 'em. Gosh! I'd hate to be such a nut!"

  "Now, Lizzie, you know you hadn't oughtta talk like that!" reproved hergrandmother, "After her giving you all that money fer your own wedding. Athousand dollars just to spend as you please on your cloes and a blow out,and house linens. Jest because she don't care for gewgaws like you do, youthink she's a fool. But she's no fool. She's got a good head on her, andshe'll get more in the long run out of life than you will. She's been realloving and kind to us all, and she didn't have any reason to neither. Wenever did much fer her. And look at how nice and common she's been with usall, not a bit high headed. I declare, Lizzie, I should think you'd beashamed!"

  "Oh, well," said Lizzie shrugging her shoulders indifferently, "She's allright in her way, only 'taint my way. And I'm thankful t'goodness that Ihad the nerve to speak up when she offered to give me my trousseau. Sheaskt me would I druther hav her buy it for me, or have the money and pickit out m'self, and I spoke up right quick and says, 'Oh, cousin Bessie, Iwouldn't _think_ of givin' ya all that trouble. I'd take the _money_ efit's all the same t'you,' and she jest smiled and said all right, sheexpected I knew what I wanted better'n she did. So yes'teddy when I wentdown to the station to see her off she handed me a bank book. And--Oh,say, I fergot! She said there was a good-bye note inside. I ain't had timeto look at it since. I went right to the movies on the dead run to getthere 'fore the first show begun, and it's in my coat pocket. Wait 'till Iget it. I spose it's some of her old _religion_! She's always preaching atme. It ain't that she says so much as that she's always _meanin'_ itunderneath, everything, that gets my goat! It's sorta like having a pieceof God round with you all the time watching you. You kinda hate to beenjoyin' yerself fer fear she won't think yer doin' it accordin' to theBible."

  Lizzie hurtled into the hall and brought back her coat, fumbling in thepocket.

  "Yes, here 'tis ma! Wanta see the figgers? You never had a whole thousanddollars in the bank t'woncet yerself, did ya?"

  Mrs. Brady put on her spectacles and reached for the book, while Lizzie'smother got up and came behind her mother's chair to look over at the magicfigures. Lizzie stooped for the little white note that had fluttered toher feet as she opened the book, but she had little interest to see whatit said. She was more intent upon the new bank book.

  It was Grandmother Brady that discovered it:

  "Why, Lizzie! It ain't _one_ thousand, it's _five_ thousand, the booksays! You don't 'spose she's made a mistake, do you?"

  Lizzie seized the book and gazed, her jaw dropping open in amaze. "Let mehave it!" demanded Lizzie's mother, reaching for the book.

  "Where's yer note, Lizzie, mebbe it'll explain," said the excitedGrandmother.

  Lizzie recovered the note which again had fluttered to the floor in theconfusion and opening it began to read:

  "_Dear Lizzie_," it read

  "I've made it five thousand so you will have some over for furnishing your home, and if you still think you want the little bungalow out on the Pike you will find the deed at my lawyer's, all made out in your name. It's my wedding gift to you, so you can go to work and buy your furniture at once, and not wait till Dan gets a raise. And here's wishing you a great deal of happiness,

  "Your loving cousin,
ELIZABETH."

  "There!" said Grandmother Brady sitting back with satisfaction and holdingher hands composedly, "Whadd' I tell ya?"

  "Mercy!" said Lizzie's mother, "Let me see that note! The idea of her_giving_ all that money when she didn't have to!"

  But Lizzie's face was a picture of joy. For once she lost her hard littleworldly screwed-up expression and was wreathed in smiles of genuineeagerness:

  "Oh _Boy_!" she exclaimed delightedly, dancing around the room, "Now wecan have a victrola, an' a player-piano, and Dan'll get a Ford, one o'those limousine-kind! Won't I be some swell? What'll the girls at thestore think now?"

  "H'm! You'd much better get a washing machine and a 'lectric iron!"grumbled Grandmother Brady practically.

  "Well, all I got to say about it is, she was an awful fool to trust _you_with so much money," said Lizzie's mother discontentedly, albeit with apleased pride as she watched her giddy daughter fling on hat and coat togo down and tell Dan.

  "I sh'll work in the store fer the rest of the week, jest to 'commodate'em," she announced putting her head back in the door as she went out,"but not a day longer. I got a lot t'do. Say, won't I be some lady in thefive-an'-ten the rest o' the week? Oh _Boy! I'll tell the world!_"

  Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled ontheir way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engagedin the all-absorbing story of each other's lives since they had parted.

  And one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at Malta andgazed about them.

  The sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown stationstood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that haslong hung on the wall of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and thedust wiped away.

  They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements followingbegan their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together whenthey first met. Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hiddenwhile the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked Godthat she had escaped so miraculously.

  It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing outhere in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two wereso changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as everhaving been that way before.

  They dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things theyhad said and done, and Elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her ownformer ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she hadasked him on that memorable journey. And ever through the beautifuljourney he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then andnow.

  Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman hadtried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long.

  Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman whohad sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safelyshe had been kept through the long journey and how good the Lord had beento her through the years. Also they both desired to reward these kindpeople for their hospitality in the time of need. So, in the early eveningthey rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. But nofriendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thoughtthe cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in thebedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked.

  After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle highabove his head. His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place lookeddishevelled. His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and itwas evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before:

  "I can't do much fer ya, strangers," he said, his voice sounding tired anddiscouraged. "If it's a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to thenext ranch. My woman is sick. Very sick. There's nobody here with her butme, and I have all I can tend to. The house ain't kept very tidy. It's sixweeks since she took to bed."

  Elizabeth had sprung lightly to the ground and was now at the threshold:

  "Oh, is she sick? I'm so sorry? Couldn't I do something for her? She wasgood to me once several years ago!"

  The old man peered at her blinkingly, noting her slender beauty, theexquisite eager face, the dress that showed her of another world--andshook his head:

  "I guess you made a mistake, lady. I don't remember ever seeing youbefore--"

  "But I remember you," she said eagerly stepping into the room, "Won't youplease let me go to her?"

  "Why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to. She's layin' there in thebed. She ain't likely to get out of it again' I'm feared. The doctor saysnothin' but a 'noperation will ever get her up, and we can't pay fer'noperations. It's a long ways to the hospital in Chicago where he wantsher sent, and M'ria and I, we ain't allowin' to part. It can't be manyyears--"

  But Elizabeth was not waiting to hear. She had slipped into the oldbedroom that she remembered now so well and was kneeling beside the bedtalking to the white faced woman on the thin pillow:

  "Don't you remember me," she asked, "I'm the girl you tried to get to staywith you once. The girl that came here with a man she had met in thewilderness. You told me things that I didn't know, and you were kind andwanted me to stay here with you? Don't you remember me? I'm Elizabeth!"

  The woman reached out a bony hand and touched the fair young face that shecould see but dimly in the flare of the candle that the old man nowbrought into the room:

  "Why, yes, I remember," the woman said, her voice sounded alive yet inspite of her illness, "Yes, I remember you. You were a dear little girl,and I was so worried about you. I would have kept you for my own--but youwouldn't stay. And he was a nice looking young man, but I was afraid foryou--You can't always tell about them--You _mostly_ can't--!"

  "But he was all right Mother!" Elizabeth's voice rang joyously through thecabin, "He took care of me and got me safely started toward my people, andnow he's my husband. I want you to see him. George come here!"

  The old woman half raised herself from the pillow and looked toward theyoung man in the doorway:

  "You don't say! He's your _husband_! Well, now isn't that grand! Well, Icertainly am glad! I was that worried--!"

  They sat around the bed talking, Elizabeth telling briefly of her ownexperiences and her wedding trip which they were taking back over the oldtrail, and the old man and woman speaking of their trouble, the woman'sbreakdown and how the doctor at Malta said there was a chance she couldget well if she went to a great doctor in Chicago, but how they had nomoney unless they sold the ranch and that nobody wanted to buy it.

  "Oh, but we have money," laughed Elizabeth joyously, "and it is our turnnow to help you. You helped us when we were in trouble. How soon can youstart? I'm going to play you are my own father and mother. We can sendthem both, can't we George?"

  It was a long time before they settled themselves to sleep that nightbecause there was so much planning to be done, and then Elizabeth and herhusband had to get out their stores and cook a good supper for the two oldpeople who had been living mostly on corn meal mush, for several weeks.

  And after the others were all asleep the old woman lay praying andthanking God for the two angels who had dropped down to help them in theirdistress.

  The next morning George Benedict with one of the men who looked aftertheir camping outfit went to Malta and got in touch with the Chicagodoctor and hospital, and before he came back to the ranch that nighteverything was arranged for the immediate start of the two old people Hehad even planned for an automobile and the Malta doctor to be inattendance in a couple of days to get the invalid to the station.

  Meantime Elizabeth had been going over the old woman's wardrobe which wasscanty and coarse, and selecting garments from her own baggage that woulddo for the journey.

  The old woman looked glorified as she touched the delicate white garmentswith their embroidery and ribbons:

  "Oh, dear child! Why, I couldn't wear a thing like that on my old worn-outbody. Those look like angels' clothes." She put a work-worn finger on
thedelicate tracery of embroidery and smoothed a pink satin ribbon bow.

  But Elizabeth overruled her. It was nothing but a plain little garmentshe had bought for the trip. If the friend thought it was pretty she wasglad, but nothing was too pretty for the woman who had taken her in in herdistress and tried to help her and keep her safe.

  The invalid was thin with her illness, and it was found that she couldeasily wear the girl's simple dress of dark blue with a white collar, andlittle dark hat, and Elizabeth donned a khaki skirt and brown cap andsweater herself and gladly arrayed her old friend in her own bridaltravelling gown for her journey. She had not brought a lot of things forher journey because she did not want to be bothered, but she could easilyget more when she got to a large city, and what was money for but to cloththe naked and feed the hungry? She rejoiced in her ability to help thiswoman of the wilderness.

  On the third day, garbed in Elizabeth's clothes, her husband fitted outfor the east in some of George Benedict's extra things, they started. Theycarried a bag containing some necessary changes, and some wonderful toiletaccessories with silver monograms, enough to puzzle the most snobbishnurse, also there was a luscious silk kimona of Elizabeth's in the bag.The two old people were settled in the Benedict private car, and in duetime hitched on to the Chicago express and hurried on their way. Beforethe younger pair went back to their pilgrimage they sent a series oftelegrams arranging for every detail of the journey for the old couple, sothat they would be met with cars and nurses and looked after mostcarefully.

  And the thanksgiving and praise of the old people seemed to follow themlike music as they rode happily on their way.

  They paused at the little old school house where they had attended theChristian Endeavor meeting, and Elizabeth looked half fearfully up theroad where her evil pursuers had ridden by, and rode closer to herhusband's side. So they passed on the way as nearly as Elizabeth couldremember every step back as she had come, telling her husband all thedetails of the journey.

  That night they camped in the little shelter where Benedict had come uponthe girl that first time they met, and under the clear stars that seemedso near they knelt together and thanked God for His leading.

  They went to the lonely cabin on the mountain, shut up and going to ruinnow, and Benedict gazing at the surroundings and then looking at thedelicate face of his lovely wife was reminded of a white flower he hadonce seen growing out of the blackness down in a coal mine, pure and cleanwithout a smirch of soil.

  They visited the seven graves in the wilderness, and standing reverentlybeside the sand-blown mounds she told him much of her early life that shehad not told him before, and introduced him to her family, telling a bitabout each that would make him see the loveable side of them. And thenthey planned for seven simple white stones to be set up, bearing wordsfrom the book they both loved. Over the care worn mother was to be written"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give yourest."

  It was on that trip that they planned what came to pass in due time. Thelittle cabin was made over into a simple, pretty home, with vines plantedabout the garden, and a garage with a sturdy little car; and not far awaya church nestled into the side of the hill, built out of the stones thatwere native, with many sunny windows and a belfry in which bells rang outto the whole region round.

  At first it had seemed impractical to put a church out there away from thetown, but Elizabeth said that it was centrally located, and high up whereit could be seen from the settlements in the valleys, and was moreover ona main trail that was much travelled. She longed to have some such spot inthe wilderness that could be a refuge for any who longed for betterthings.

  When they went back they sent out two consecrated missionaries to occupythe new house and use the sturdy little car. They were to ring the bells,preach the gospel and play the organ and piano in the little church.

  Over the pulpit there was a beautiful window bearing a picture of Christ,the Good Shepherd, and in clear letters above were the words: "And thoushalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee these fortyyears in the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know whatwas in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments, or no."

  And underneath the picture were the words:

  "'In the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion in the secretof his tabernacle shall he hide me.' In memory of His hidings,

  "George and Elizabeth Benedict."

  But in the beautiful home in Philadelphia, in an inner intimate room thesewords are exquisitely graven on the wall, "Let not your heart betroubled."