Here let me pause, my quest forego;
Enough for me to feel and know
That He in whom the cause and end,
The past and future meet and blend,-
Who, girt with his immensities,
Our vast and star-hung system sees,
Small as the clustered Pleiades,-
Moves not alone the heavenly quires,
But waves the spring-time's grassy spires,
Guards not archangel feet alone,

But deigns to guide and keep my own.

-Whittier.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A WONDERFUL WAY.

As the meeting closed, Richard made his way over to the singer. She had expected him. She had seen by his face that he recognized her. He hardly knew what to say. Holding out her hand she said with delicate emotion, "Mr. Harrison, it is rather late to thank you for defending a helpless gipsy girl. I saw you when you graduated but was unable to tell you of the gratitude I have always felt."

"There is much I would talk with you about and many questions I would ask, but this is not the place," Richard replied.

"You must come with me and at my home we can talk over the strange past. Aunt, this is the boy that saved me from one cruel beating by the gipsy."

When they reached home, Ethel told of her escape, of the three long days when she wandered through the wood, living upon roots and berries; of her going to the door of a farm house where an aged couple lived

and at their kindness bursting into tears and telling them her story; how they had cared for her, and sent her to school and college; and how at the death of her benefactors she had gone to a sister of the lady who had befriended her in New York.

"How came you to be at the college on the Commencement day?" asked Richard.

"I was visiting a friend of mine who was a student there and recognized you as you stepped upon the platform as the one who had defended me in the gipsy camp. And, Mr. Harrison, the day I heard your oration on the 'Reign of Love,' I resolved I would use my talent in ministry to others, and among the things I have been led to do is to sing to the poor people in the mission."

Then Richard gave her a glimpse of his life since graduation, and told why he was on to New York, omitting, as he told of Mr. and Mrs. Warren, the cause of their sorrow. Ethel was greatly interested, and asked many questions about his mission.

At last Richard said to her, "Miss Johnston, you will pardon me for asking, but how came you to be in the gipsy camp?"

"I do not know," she answered. "I have

always had an indistinct memory of happier days and of a sweet face that used to bend over me, and a clear opinion that I was not a child of the gipsies."

"Is there any other fact that would have a bearing upon your identity?"

"Upon a tiny garment that the gipsy woman said belonged to me was stitched the word 'Ethel.' When I was helped by my dear old friends I took that and their name, 'Johnston,' as my name."

With great difficulty Richard controlled himself, and Ethel told him afterwards that she wondered why her reply moved him so.

"Miss Johnston, would you be glad if you could ever find the home of your childhood?"

Her face shone at his words. "All these years my heart has cried out for a father's and mother's love. My school friends would take me to their homes and I would see their parents' love, and the hunger of my heart would deepen."

"Perhaps I can help you to find your home. With the things you have told me and other facts I have learned, of which I

have not yet spoken to you, I have great hopes of success."

The color came and went from her cheek and her breast heaved but she did not speak.

"I do not want you to expect too much as I tell you something more of my dear friends -Mr. and Mrs. Warren. The cause of their grief was the sudden disappearance of their little daughter, Ethel, when she was five years old, and hunt as they would, no trace of her has ever been found. The first time I met Mrs. Warren the resemblance between her and what I remembered of the gipsy girl and of the face at commencement was so striking as to startle me. I told them at last of it, and they renewed their search with new courage, but no trace of the gipsies or of Ethel could be found. I am more than ever convinced, after seeing you and talking with you, that you are their daughter. If I did not know differently, I should take your voice for Mrs. Warren's."

The tears came silently down her cheeks. "Oh, if it could only be!" was all she could

say.

"I shall telegraph them tonight to come," he said.