Still the boat hung there in the darkness. What could be done? The waves rolled beneath, the wind moaned in the rigging.

"We might risk one more, sir," came from the boat.

The captain looked at Chester, big, strong, full of youth, and then at the slender, gray-haired man. What a pity, and yet he knew the younger man would have to remain. That is the law of the sea.

"I'll not go," said the father. "You go, Chester."

"No, no; we'll manage somehow; but you must take the chance. Here, help him in."

Captain Brown stood by with lifted lantern. He did not dictate which of the two should go. He had no need of that. He saw Chester lift the old man in his arms, hold him for an instant close to him, kiss him and murmur, "Goodby father, and God bless and preserve you"--then he handed him over to outstretched hands in the boat.

Captain Brown and Chester Lawrence stood by the railing and watched the boat lowered. Then when they knew it was safely riding the waves, they turned to each other.

"Where is your life-belt?" asked the Captain. "Get it, and put it on."

"Is there a chance?"

"There is always a chance. Come. We shall go together, one way or another--the way God wills."

They walked along the slanting deck down to where Lucy lay on the couch in the smoking room. Chester did not notice the life-belt on the table, but he lifted a lantern to Lucy's face, kneeled by it, and kissed it tenderly. "Lucy," he said, "my sweetheart, where are you? Don't you want me to come too?" He stroked the still face, and smoothed back the hair as he was wont. "Aren't you afraid in that new world to which you have gone--aren't you as lonesome as--I am? O Lucy, Lucy!"

"Come put on this belt," said the captain, touching him on the shoulder.

"I'm coming with you, Lucy," continued the young man. "Nothing shall part us--as I have told you--we two,--O, my God, what can I do?"

The captain led Chester away from the dead, out to the open deck, and buckled around him a life-belt. "Wait here" said the officer. "There is a chance--I'm going to see. I'll be back in a minute."

Chester was alone, and in those few minutes the wonderful panorama of life passed before him. He lived in periods, each period ending with Lucy Strong. His boyhood, and his awakening to the world about him--then Lucy; his schooldays, with boys and girls--out from them came Lucy; his early manhood, his forming ideals--completed in Lucy; his experiences in the West, and at Piney Ridge Cottage, and then came, not Julia, but Lucy; then the gospel with its new light and assurance of salvation; and this coupled with Lucy, her faith and love, burned as a sweet incense in the soul of Chester Lawrence. Fear left him now. He heard sounds as if they were songs from distant angel-choirs. Words of comfort and strength were whispered to his heart: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art near me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...." Eternity! Why, an immortal soul is always in eternity; and God is always at hand in life or in death.... Death! what is it but the passing to the other side of a curtain, where our loved ones are waiting to meet and greet us!

Chester stepped back to Lucy. It was dark where she lay, but he passed his hand over her form to her face, touching tenderly her cheek and closed eyes. The flesh was not yet cold, but he felt that the soul whom he had come to know as Lucy Strong was not there.

Captain Brown called through the darkness. Chester groped into the open again. Was that the captain's figure on the bridge, looming black against the faint light in the eastern sky? If it was, Chester was in no condition to know, for just then there came a great sinking. A roar of waters sounded in his ears, there was a struggle, a moment of agony, and then the darkness of oblivion.

When he awoke again, he had passed over the storm-whipped bar into still waters. There Lucy met him, and together they sailed, guided by the unerring Light of God into the Harbor of Eternal Peace and Rest.

CHAPTER XXI.

Thomas Strong was a guest at Piney Ridge Cottage. It had taken him a full year to get over the effects of that dreadful sea disaster wherein a son, a daughter, and a dear friend had been lost, and to finally make his way westward to the people to whom both son and daughter had belonged. He had arrived during apple-blossom time, and the white-haired, sad-faced man who seemed to have had all mortality burned from him by fiery trials, was kindly received by Mr. Elston, his daughter Julia and her husband, Bishop Glen Curtis. These listened to his strange story, and were profoundly moved by its tragic ending. They urged him to remain with them, Julia giving him the room on the attic floor which previously was hers. He was grateful for all these kindnesses, saying he would be pleased to visit with them for a time.

Out under the apple trees in the growing orchard Hugh Elston made for their guest a seat, where during the day he would sit as one alone, listening and waiting here in this spot away from the noise and traffic of the world for a final message which the God of the Universe might send him. As far as his strength would allow, he liked to walk along the country roads, which now extended for many miles from Piney Ridge, and chat with the neighbors about the country and its prospects. He also made some minor excursions up the hillsides, but in this direction he could not go far. Frequently he stopped to rest by the enclosed graves, where he sat on the grass, and with hands on cane, looked wonderingly at the two graves, side by side.

But whispered messages from out the blue or storms of heaven did not come to this man. Neither were there angels sent to tell him what to do; but the Lord had one more thing--simple indeed--to bear upon the reluctant heart of Thomas Strong.

In the little attic room which Julia had turned over to her guest were many books, papers, and magazines. She had told him that everything in the room was at his service, and so the visitor made good use of the kind offer. One day he found a small book which had the name Anna Lawrence--Chester's mother--written on the fly-leaf. Curiously turning over the pages of the volume, which was simply a school book of the kind he remembered in his youth, he found between the leaves an old letter.

He unfolded the deeply creased sheets, looked at the strange handwriting, saw that it was dated thirty years ago, and addressed to "Miss Anna Lawrence" and signed by a name unknown to him. There could no harm come from reading this message from the past, so he drew his chair up to the window, and read:

"_Dear Friend Anna_:

"It is three months now since I left home for this mission, and not having heard anything yet from you, I thought a few lines from me might help you get started in the letter-writing direction. I am enjoying my mission very much, which perhaps you cannot understand, but it is true, nevertheless. I came to this place yesterday and have already delivered some tracts. Most of the people are against us, specially is this the case with preachers. They get after us roughly. My companion isn't as old as I am, and goodness knows, I'm young and green enough; but we're both studying hard, and the Lord is with us, which, after all, is our chief concern.

"I hope you are getting along at school. Do you remember the fun we had last vacation? I heard that our friend Sue is about to be married, but I suppose you know all about that.

"But I must tell you about something that happened to us before coming here. It was in a place not far from Chicago, and my companion and I were tracting as usual. I took one side of the street and he took the other. Well, along about noon when it was time we should quit, my companion didn't make his appearance. I waited a long time, then crossed the street to look for him. The weather was warm and people were mostly out of doors in the shade. I heard what sounded like a big discussion on a porch behind some vines. I went up, and sure enough, there was my companion and another young fellow having it out in great shape. The young man sat in his shirt sleeves on a table, and the way he was giving it to that poor friend of mine was a caution. I learned that the young fellow was studying for the ministry, and because of that, he considered himself just the person to give it good and hard to a 'Mormon'

missionary.

"Well, the fellow sat there on the table, his legs swinging as if he didn't care a--rap. There was a Bible and some other books on the table, but they had got beyond the use of books. The young fellow ridiculed the Prophet, poked fun at his revelations, and said the 'Mormons' were a bad lot altogether. Said they deserved to be driven from decent society into the desert as they had been. He kept it up like that, and then he said something odd. 'I wouldn't have your religion at any price,' he said.

'Get out with you.'

"My companion sat there, not saying a word. I saw the tears come into his eyes. He wiped them away hurriedly. Then his face became pale, and it seemed to me that a light actually shone from it. As I told you, he is just a boy, and as I looked on him then, I thought of the boy prophet, and what my father has told me so often about him. Well, when the fellow got through with his abuse, and jumped from the table as if we were dismissed, my companion arose and in a voice wonderfully gentle yet vibrant with power, said:

"'Yes, we will go, but not before I tell you this: You know not what you say, therefore, you are forgiven, as far as I am concerned. My parents were driven from this state. All they had was destroyed by mobs. My mother died on the plains and her body lies there to this day. All that mortal man can suffer and live my people have suffered, and all for the sake of the truth, the gospel that I have brought to you this day, and which you so scornfully reject. And now I tell you in the name of the Lord, some day you will receive this gospel--but not until you have paid for it, and paid for it dearly. Like the merchantman in the parable, _all that you have_ will you pay for this Pearl of Great Price! Good day, sir.'

"We both left him standing somewhat dazed, but I tell you--"

The letter dropped to Thomas Strong's knee, as he looked up and out at the closing day. He arose, went to the glass door which opened on to the little porch, stepped out into the air that he might breathe easier.

What he saw was not Old Thunder Mountain, or the wide extent of the Flat, dim now in the twilight, but a vine-enclosed porch and the pale, peculiar face of a boy telling him the words he had just read. * * * *

There had been other boy prophets besides the first great one; and yes, oh Great God, one old, broken man had paid the price.

The vines on the upper porch of Piney Ridge Cottage now also formed a cover, and in their shadow Thomas Strong kneeled and prayed as he had never prayed before.

An hour later, Julia, wondering what their guest was doing in his room so long without a light, called to him softly at the foot of the stairs.

"Yes," he replied, as if he did not realize for the moment who was calling, "I'm coming--I'm coming now."

CHAPTER XXII.

The first Sunday in the month was Fast Day at Piney Ridge the same as in all wards of the Church. The Bishop had some visiting to do that morning so he did not get to Sunday School; but he returned about eleven o'clock and found the horses hitched to the white-top buggy ready to take all the household to meeting.

"Are we all ready?" he asked as he came into the house.

"Just about," replied his wife who was putting the finishing touches to the baby's bonnet. "Here, hold him." She placed the baby in Glen's arms.

The father somewhat awkwardly tossed him up and down.

"Now be careful," admonished the mother, "don't muss his clothes up like that. Today is his first public appearance, you know."

"Your coming out, eh?" he asked of the baby. "Well, we'll have to be good, won't we."

This was in the front room. Thomas Strong sat, hat in hand, ready, while he smiled at the bear-like antics of the happy father with his first baby. Then when the mother came in with hat on, the old man arose slowly, went to the organ and looked at a photograph of Chester Lawrence, which had recently been framed and now held the place of honor on the organ. The Bishop, seeing the movement, lifted the baby to the picture.