"'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' And you are not yet as Job. He lost everything. You have gained a father and a sister. That, certainly, is something."

"Yes, it is; and yet in the finding of these two, I have lost--well--you know--"

"Yes; I know; but the Lord can even make that right. Trust Him, trust Him, always and in everything. That's my motto for life. I can not get along without it."

"Thank you so very much."

They talked for some time, then they went out for a walk.

"But you haven't time to spend on me like this," remonstrated Chester.

"I am here to do all the good I can, and why should my services not be given to those of the faith as well as to those who have no use for me nor my message? Come along; I want to tell you of another letter which I received from home,--yes, the twin calves are doing fine."

Chester smiled, which was just what his companion wanted. "You remain here today," continued the elder. "The boys will be in after a while, and then we shall have dinner. After that, if you are still thinking too much of your own affairs, we'll take you out on the street and let you preach to the crowd."

"That might help," admitted Chester.

"Help! It's the surest kind of cure."

Chester remained with the elders during the afternoon and evening, even going out with them on the street. He was not called on to preach, however, though he would have attempted it had he been asked.

Chester slept better that night. He felt so sure of himself next morning that he could call on Lucy, and do the right thing. He did not forget or neglect his prayers any more, and he was well on the way of saying again, "Thy will be done," in the right spirit.

Uncle Gilbert met Chester at the door, not very graciously, however. He replied to Chester's inquiries sharply:

"My brother is quite ill, brought about, I have no doubt, by your unwise actions of yesterday morning. What was the matter with you? I don't understand you."

Chester did not attempt any explanation or defense.

"And Lucy, too, was quite ill yesterday--no; she is not up yet--no; I don't think you had better come in. I shall not permit you to see my brother again until he is better."

"I'm very sorry," said Chester. "I must see Lucy, however, and so I'll call again after a while." He walked away. He did not blame Uncle Gilbert, who was no doubt doing the best he knew, although somewhat in the dark. He walked in the park for an hour and then came back.

Lucy met him at the gate. She was dressed as if for walking. Her face betrayed the disturbance in her soul, and Chester's heart went out in pity for her.

"Yes," she said simply, "I was going out to find you, I heard Uncle Gilbert send you away. Shall we walk in the park?"

"Yes; I am glad you came out. Is your father worse this morning?"

"I don't think he is worse. He is simply in the stage of his attacks when he can't talk. I'm sure he'll be all right in a day or two; but Uncle Gilbert don't understand."

"And you, Lucy--you must not worry."

"How can I help it? Something is the matter with you. Why do you act so strangely?"

They found the bench on which they were wont to rest, and seated themselves.

Chester could not deny that he had changed; yet how could he tell her the truth? She must know it, the sooner the better. It might be many days before her father could tell her, even if he were inclined to do so. The situation was unbearable. She must know, and he must tell her.

"Lucy," he said after a little struggle with his throat, "I have something to tell you,--something strange. Oh, no, nothing evil or bad, or anything like that."

He took her hands which were trembling.

"You must promise me that you will take this news quietly."

"Just as quietly as I can, Chester."

"Well, you know how excitement affects your heart, so I shall not tell you if you will not try to be calm."

"And now, of course, I can be indifferent, can I, even if you should say no more? Oh, Chester, what is it? The suspense is a thousand times harder than the truth. What have you got to tell me? What passed between you and papa last evening? Is it--have you ceased to love me?"

"No, no, Lucy, not that. I love you as much as ever, more than ever for something has been added to my first love--that of a love for a sister."

"Yes, Chester I know. When I was baptized--"

"No; you don't know. I don't mean that."

"What _do_ you mean?"

Oh, it was so hard to go on. One truth must lead to another. If he told her he was her brother in the flesh as well as in the spirit, she would want to know how, why; and the explanation would involve her father. He had not thought of that quite so plainly. But he could not now stop. He must go on. He felt about for a way by which to approach the revelation gradually.

"You have never had a brother, have you?" he asked.

"No."

"Would you like to have one?"

"I've always wanted a brother."

"How would I do for one?"

She looked at him curiously, then the sober face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh, you'd make a fine one."

"You wouldn't object."

"I should think not."

"But, now, what would you think if I _was_ your real brother, if my name was Chester Strong?"

"I'd think you were just joking a little."

"But I'm not joking, Lucy; I am in earnest. Take a good look at me, here at this profile. Do I look like your father?"

She looked closely. "I believe you do," she said, still without a guess at the truth. "Your forehead slopes just like his, and your nose has the same bump on it. I never noticed that before."

"What might that mean, Lucy?"