"And you will help him forward a little when he comes back. You and
he will be happy."
There might be a great surging wave of joy in my heart, but it would
not let me say anything but, "And leave you alone, Harold?"
"I must learn to be alone," he said. "I can stay here this winter,
and see to the things in hand, and then I suppose something will turn
up."
"As a call?" I said.
"Yes," he answered. "I told God to-day that I had nothing to do but
His service, and I suppose He will find it for me."
There was something in the steadfast, yet wistful look of his eyes,
that made me take down the legend of St. Christopher and read it
aloud. Reading generally sent him into a doze, but even that would
be a respite to the heartache he so patiently bore, and I took the
chance, but he sat with his chin on his hand and his eyes fixed
attentively on mine all the time, then held out his hand for the
book, and pondered, as was his thorough way in such matters. At last
he said, "Well, I'll wait by the stream. Some day He will send me
some one to carry over."
We little thought what stream was very near!
CHAPTER XV. THE FATAL TOKEN.
Tuesday morning brought a strange little untidy packet, tied with
blue ribbon, understamped, and directed to Harold Alison, Esquire, in
the worst form of poor Dora's always bad handwriting.
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