since that day in cheemaun when elizabeth had met mrs. jarvis, and unconsciously stumbled upon what miss gordon deemed her fortune, the girl had enjoyed her aunt's highest approval. she had made several holiday visits to the old home, and each time miss gordon had noted new signs of improvement. and now that elizabeth had further distinguished herself by writing a poem, miss gordon's approbation broke out in an affectionate letter, that warmed the girl's love-craving heart.

the gay gordons, each after his own fashion, expressed his views of this new development of the wild streak, producing all sorts of opinions from mr. gordon, who memorized the pretty verses and hummed them over at his work and to jean, who, while confessing that the little rhyme had no literary value, declared herself exceedingly glad that lizzie was about to do something.

mrs. jarvis was the most highly pleased, and to add further to her joy, sent a copy of the dominion containing the poem to her niece in cheemaun. the olivers had not been on the best of terms with their aunt since madeline had been superseded by an interloper, and mrs. jarvis was not above enjoying her niece's chagrin.

elizabeth heard of the effect of the poem from estella. she wrote a rapturous letter, two pages of which were filled with congratulations, the other ten with a description of the perfectly horrid, mean way the olivers were acting—except horace—and the perfectly frightful time she was having with all her clamoring suitors. horace was not excepted this time. she ended up by declaring she almost felt like marrying horry just to spite madeline—who still refused to notice her socially,—only he had been beth's beau so long, she felt it would be cruel and wicked.

elizabeth wrote renouncing all claim upon the youth, and signing over whatever rights she may have had to estella. she sighed a little over madeline's case, for they had been old school-mates, and elizabeth felt keenly her position as usurper. nevertheless, she was happier now than she had been since she left the dale as mrs. jarvis's companion. she believed that her pen had found for her a purpose in life. under all elizabeth's gay exterior, unquenched by the idle life of fashion, there lay a strong desire to be of use in a large, grand way—the old joan of arc dream. when she had first entered the new world with mrs. jarvis, her dream had centered about eppie, her forlorn little school-mate. the pathos of eppie's old-fashioned figure and pale face had never ceased to touch elizabeth's heart.

at first her conscience, trained by mother macallister, had rebelled at the thought of accepting a luxurious home from the woman who had, through callous indifference, allowed eppie to be turned away from her poor little log-cabin home in the forest. but elizabeth could never have explained to her aunt her reluctance to accept the brilliant prospects before her, so she had gone into the new life determined to use whatever influence she could gain with her new companion towards bringing back eppie and her grandfather to forest glen. but the years had passed, and, so far, she had accomplished nothing. old sandy and eppie had disappeared, and even should she find them elizabeth had little hope of help from mrs. jarvis. she could be indolently and weakly generous in the face of a pressing need, presented directly to her, but her young companion had always found her callously indifferent to any tale of distress that called for an effort of any sort.

and so elizabeth's ambition had gradually waned, until she was in danger of developing into a mere woman of fashion. but now she had found a new avenue for her activities. she would produce a great song one day, something that would make the world better and that would command charles stuart's approbation, no matter how unwilling he was to give it. accordingly she made a bolder flight into the realm of poesy, and sent this second venture to the dominion. to her dismay it was promptly sent back without a remark. a third and fourth effort to gain an entrance to lesser publications, ending in failure, convinced her that once more she had made a mistake. the pretender was right, she had not the divine fire. she tried prose next, but she could not weave a story had her life depended upon it, and as for those clever articles other women wrote, she did not even understand what they were about. no, she was a failure surely, she told herself. this little song was like her acting on the school stage in the old days at home. she had promised to be a star and had suddenly set in oblivion.

she gave up literature entirely, and once more that old imperative question, of what use was she to be in the world, faced her. she might have found opportunities in plenty in st. stephen's church, but the only young ladies she knew in the congregation belonged to the select guild of which miss kendall was a member, and since her encounter with that lady elizabeth had wisely avoided her. besides, she felt that john and charles stuart would surely disown her if she were caught connecting herself with that society.

but the opportunities for self-examination and consequent self-dissatisfaction grew fewer as the winter advanced. luncheons, receptions, bridge tournaments, and theater parties followed each other with such bewildering swiftness that elizabeth seldom had time for serious thought. so busy was she that often a week flew past without an opportunity even to run over to no. 15, much to the satisfaction of mrs. jarvis, who was often jealous of its attractions.

there was a new reason, too, for elizabeth's many engagements, other than her popularity. ever since the evening early in the autumn when mr. huntley had recognized his little queen elizabeth of the forest glen woods, he had been paying her marked attentions. he was a wealthy man now, one of the city's most prominent lawyers, a large shareholder in one of the new and most promising railroads, and—as mrs. jarvis joyfully pointed out to elizabeth at every opportunity—the best match to be met in their social circle.

at first his notice had flattered elizabeth and pleased her. it was just what she had thought she wanted. there had been very little of such pleasant experiences in her life. she had been a spectator of many pretty romances, but had always stood on the outer edge of the enchanted land, longing, yet fearing to enter. looking back she had to confess that horace oliver had produced her only romance, and now horace was gone. some of the young men she met in the fashionable world attracted her at first, and finally bored her. often some one of them, captivated by her star-like eyes and her vivacity, would single her out for special favors, and be met with great cordiality. then suddenly, to mrs. jarvis's disgust, elizabeth would grow weary of him and take no pains to hide her feelings. the young men soon ceased to run the risk of being so treated. "miss gordon was eccentric," they said, "and besides had a sharp tongue." elizabeth noticed wistfully that all possible suitors drifted away and wondered what was the matter with her.

but mr. huntley promised to be entirely constant, and his intentions grew more obvious every day.

he was almost a middle-aged man now, and not likely to have passing fancies. but here as elsewhere elizabeth found herself behaving in an unexpected fashion. she told herself that mrs. jarvis was right, and that if mr. huntley asked her to marry him she would indeed be a fortunate young woman, and yet when he came to their apartments in crescent court she was always seized with a wild desire to run away to jean and the boys.

nevertheless she reveled in the idea of being loved, and as long ago she had striven to put her pretty teacher upon a pedestal for worshipping, just because a teacher was always a glorified being, so she sought to surround mr. huntley's rather pompous middle-aged figure with the rose mist of her girlish dreams. for elizabeth wanted to be loved more than anything else in the wide world.

and so the winter sped away in days crammed with pleasure-seeking, and the light of mother macallister's teaching had almost faded from elizabeth's life. but just as it had grown too dim to be seen by mortal eye, there came softly stealing into her heart the first hint of that dawn which was soon to break over her spirit and melt the gathering clouds of uselessness and selfishness. slowly and almost imperceptibly the day was advancing, just as it had risen that summer morning so long ago when her wondering child-eyes had seen it steal over the dale. there was no light as yet. forms of right and wrong remained dim and not yet to be distinguished from each other; nevertheless the first note of the approaching dawn-music was soon to be sounded. it was to be a very feeble note,—the cry of a bird with a broken pinion—but it was to usher in the day of elizabeth's new life.

spring had begun to send forth her heralds in the form of high march winds. it was a chilly afternoon, and mrs. jarvis, her attempts at youthfulness all laid aside, was sitting huddled between the grate fire and the steam radiator drinking her tea.

"beth," she called sharply, "don't forget your engagement for this afternoon."

mrs. jarvis's tone told elizabeth that the usual dispute regarding her goings and comings was at hand. generally she managed to cajole her querulous companion into permitting her her own way, but prospects did not look very bright at present. she emerged slowly from the pretty blue bedroom looking very handsome in her rich furs and a gray-blue toque that matched her eyes.

"you mean that committee of miss kendall's? i'm afraid if i go i'll get tangled up in that awful guild."

since the day she had met miss kendall doing charitable work in seaton crescent, elizabeth had managed by much scheming to avoid that young lady. but a few days previous a little note had come from her asking miss gordon to come to the committee rooms at the church to help arrange some private theatricals which the young woman's guild purposed giving for an easter entertainment. the proceeds were to go to the poor, and miss kendall felt sure miss gordon would be interested; besides, she had heard miss gordon had especial talent for the stage. as miss kendall knew nothing whatever about miss gordon, the latter had wondered where she got her information, until mr. huntley had enlightened her. he had dropped in the same evening with a dozen roses, and had intimated that he had helped miss kendall make out her list. mrs. jarvis had been overjoyed, and now the day had come and elizabeth was in some dismay as to how she was to get out of the predicament.

"miss withrow, the president, sent me an invitation to come to a meeting in the church. some missionary man is to give an address. now, wouldn't you rather i'd go there than to those giddy theatricals? the withrows are quite as important as the kendalls."

"don't be sarcastic. it's very unladylike. i'm not so anxious for you to join the guild, but i want you to go to blanche's meeting. mr. huntley was telling me those girls are getting their heads full of romantic notions about slumming and all that nonsense. i know he doesn't like that type of woman, so you are as well out of it."

elizabeth's long lashes drooped rebelliously.

"what has he to do with my affairs?"

"oh indeed! what has he to do with them?" mrs. jarvis imitated her voice and manner. "he acts just now as though he had everything to do with you." she suddenly grew serious. "mr. huntley is a very fastidious gentleman, miss elizabeth, and you'd better not let him know anything about your eccentric tricks. it might spoil your chances."

elizabeth's face flushed. "my chances of what, for instance?" she inquired.

mrs. jarvis laughed good-naturedly.

"don't be absurd. whatever you are you're not dull. why do you persist in ignoring what is patent to everybody? do you mean to stand there, elizabeth gordon, and tell me you never imagined yourself mrs. huntley?"

"oh, as to that: there's no limit to what one can imagine. i've imagined myself joan of arc, often—and mrs. horace oliver, and jake martin's third—supposing he dared outlive auntie jinit—and a circus rider, and a pelican of the wilderness, and any other absurd thing, without seriously considering taking up any of the afore-mentioned professions."

"oh, you absurd young hypocrite. run away now, and don't bother me. go right over to the church at once and help blanche. you always seem to miss every chance for getting better acquainted with her."

elizabeth went slowly down the stairs, telling herself whimsically that the way of the transgressor was hard. she had not gone many steps before her spirit caught the mood of the radiant march day. there had been a light fall of snow in the morning, and the streets were beautiful for the moment under their fresh covering. the keen air and the dazzling sunlight brought a glow to her checks and a light to her eyes. she could not be troubled on such a radiant day by all the miss kendalls in canada.

as she crossed the park, now a sparkling fairy garden, she was suddenly made conscious that a familiar figure was hastening along a crosspath in her direction; a comfortable-looking, middle-aged figure that moved with a stately stride. for an instant elizabeth was possessed with a perverse feeling of irritation, as though he were guilty of the restrictions laid upon her. that he was the innocent cause of some of them could not be denied, for he was a very particular gentleman as to his own and everyone else's deportment, and the sight of him always raised in her a desire to do something shocking.

he smiled with genuine pleasure as he greeted her; though his manner was formal and a trifle pompous.

"and how is queen elizabeth this afternoon?" he asked. "as radiant as usual, i perceive."

she returned his greeting a trifle constrainedly, gave the requested permission to accompany her, and walked demurely at his side, her eyes cast down. she was wondering mischievously what he would say if she should tell him her reasons for wishing to escape her afternoon's engagement.

their way led for a short distance along a splendid broad avenue that, starting at the park, stretched away down into the heart of the city. its four rows of trees, drooping under their soft mantle of snow, extended far into the dim white distance.

"toronto is a fine city," said mr. huntley proudly, "and just at this point one sees its best. here are our legislative buildings, yonder a glimpse of our university, here a hospital, there a church and——"

"and here," said elizabeth, unexpectedly turning a corner—"another aspect of the same city."

she had turned aside into a narrow alley, which, in but a few steps led into a scene of painful contrast to the avenue. it was the slum district—right in the center of the beautiful city—the worm at the heart of the flower. here the streets were narrow and dirty. noisy ragged children, italian vendors, jewish ragpickers, slatternly women, and drunken men brushed against them as they passed.

"you should not have come this way, miss gordon," said mr. huntley solicitously, as he guided her across the black muck of the crossing, to which the snow had already been converted. "i hope you do not come here alone."

"i was never here before," said elizabeth. "how terrible to live in comfort with this at one's back door, as it were." she shuddered.

mr. huntley looked slightly disturbed. "i am glad you are not one of those sentimental young ladies of st. stephen's, who have been seized with the romantic idea that they can overturn conditions here. these people are better left alone."

elizabeth was silent. they had just passed a wee ragged girl, whose blue, pinched face and hungry eyes made her sick with pity. the child was calling shrilly to an equally ragged boy who had paused on the sidewalk a little ahead of them. the youngster was absorbed in tormenting a feeble old man, whose little wagon with its load of soiled clothing he had just overturned into the mud of the street. the man was making pitiful attempts to gather up his bundle, but his poor old frame, stiffened and twisted with rheumatism, refused to bend. the urchin shouted with laughter, and his victim leaned against a wall whimpering helplessly. the sight of him hurt elizabeth even more than the little girl's hungry face. she thought of her own father, and felt a hint of the anguish it would mean if ho should one day be ill-treated. the tears came, blinding her eyes so that she stumbled along the rotten sidewalk.

a young woman suddenly appeared from the door of a hovel that stood half-way down an alley just across the way. she had a ragged shawl over her head, her thin cotton shirt flapped about her meager limbs, and her feet were incased in men's boots. she ran swiftly to the old man, routed the urchin, and with many pitying, comforting words began gathering up the contents of the wagon. elizabeth longed to stay and help and comfort them both; she listened eagerly, after they had passed, to catch what the girl was saying. "poor grandaddy," she heard again and again. "poor grandaddy, i shouldn't have let ye go alone."

there was something about her that drew elizabeth to her. she wanted to stop and thank her for the assurance that love could blossom so beautifully even in this barren spot. her voice, too, haunted her. where had she heard that soft highland accent before? it seemed to bring some vague memory of childhood. she glanced up at her companion, wondering if she dared step back and speak to the pair.

but mr. huntley did not seem to have noticed them. he was looking across the street with an air of half-amused interest.

"i'm rather glad you brought me around this way, miss gordon," he said, the amusement in his face deepening. "i own some property here that i haven't seen for years." he waved his cane in the direction of the row of houses across the street. elizabeth looked back, the old man and the girl were disappearing down the alley into one of them.

"they are a hard lot, my tenants. if some of the young ladies of st. stephen's experienced a little of the difficulty my agent has collecting rent, or came across one fraction of the fraud and trickery these people can practice, their philanthropy would cool slightly."

elizabeth was too much moved to speak. it hurt her so to find him unsympathetic. to her unaccustomed eyes the signs of want on all sides were unspeakably pitiful, and in the face of it his indifference was callous and cruel. she struggled to keep back the tears, tears of both sorrow and indignation.

they had emerged into the region of broad, clean streets now, and her companion, glancing down at her, saw she was disturbed. he strove to raise her spirits by cheerful talk, but elizabeth refused to respond. she looked so depressed he suddenly thought of a little surprise he had in store for her, which would be likely to make her happy.

"by the way, what is your brother going to do when he graduates next spring?" he inquired.

"i don't know," said elizabeth, reviving somewhat at the mention of john. this was a subject upon which the brother and sister had had much anxious discussion. it was imperative that he should earn some money immediately, to pay his college debts, for this last year was to be partially on borrowed money.

"john's just worrying about that," she added frankly. "he'd like to get some experience in a hospital, but he really ought to be earning money."

"they want a young medical this spring up on this new north american line i'm interested in. there are hundreds of men on the construction. ask him if he'd like that. it is a good thing, lots of practice, and more pay."

elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes aglow with gratitude. to help john was to do her the greatest favor. she had heard him again and again expressing a desire for some such appointment.

"oh, how can i thank you?" she cried, the light returning to her face. "it would mean everything to john. you are so kind." she gave him another glance, that set his middle-aged heart beating just a trifle faster.

they had reached the steps of st. stephen's by this time, and elizabeth's leave-taking was warmly grateful. yes, she would be home in the evening when he called, she promised.

as she ascended the steps of the church she was reminded by the booming of the bell in the city tower that she was half an hour early. why not run back to no. 15 and tell john the good news? his afternoon lectures had stopped and he would probably be studying. she turned quickly and ran down the steps. as she did so she was surprised to meet several young men and women ascending them. surely they could not all belong to miss kendall's dramatic troupe, she reflected, as she hurried away.

john was in his room and alone, and when he heard elizabeth's news he caught her round the waist and danced about until mrs. dalley sent up by one of her maids to inquire if them young men didn't care if the plaster in the ceiling below all fell down? the dancers collapsed joyously upon the sofa, and elizabeth, looking at john's glowing face, felt what happiness might be hers one day if she had wealth enough to help her family to their desires.

"this is the bulliest thing that ever happened," cried john boyishly. "say, he thinks all manner of things about you, lizzie, i can see."

elizabeth blushed. "nonsense. it's your profound learning and great medical skill that attracted him."

"when did he tell you?"

"just this afternoon. i was going to the church to a committee meeting of miss kendall's—the church caller, john, just think, haven't i the courage of a v. c.?—and he walked there with me—and oh, john, we came through newton street, and it's an awful place. i never dreamed there was such poverty right near us. isn't it wicked to eat three meals a day and be well dressed, when people are starving right at one's door?"

"i suppose some of those poor beggars do have a kind of slim diet, but it's half their own fault. don't you go and get batty over them, now. mac has it so bad i can't stand another."

"stuart? what about him?"

"he's got into some kind of mission business down in that hole; but don't tell him i let it out. he's the kind that would cut his right hand off if it hinted its doings to his left hand."

"why, what does he do there?" elizabeth's voice had a wistful note. this was just what she should have been doing, but charles stuart had never appealed to her for help. he knew better, she told herself, with some bitterness.

"oh, all sorts of stunts—boys' club and sunday school; everything from nursing babies to hammering drunks that abuse their wives. he keeps me and old bagsley humping, too. it's good practice, but the pay's all glory. bags has about a dozen patients down there now."

elizabeth was silent; that old, old feeling of despair that used to come over her when john and charles stuart disappeared down the lane, leaving her far behind, was stealing over her. they had gone away ahead again, and she—she was no use in the world, and so was left to drift.

"i suppose he's going to be a minister after all, then," she said at last, rising and wrapping her fur around her slim throat. "mother macallister will be happy."

"i don't know if he is. he's got all muddled up in some theological tangle. knox fellows come over here and they argue all night sometimes, and mac doesn't seem to know where he's at in regard to the bible." john laughed easily. "never mind, betsey, i'm acting physician to the new british north american railroad, and you're a brick, so you are!"

but the light did not return to elizabeth's face. john followed her down to the door, bidding her an affectionate and grateful farewell.

"this is better than putting up my shingle in forest glen and living in old sandy's house, eh?" he asked laughingly, as they parted.

elizabeth smiled and nodded good-by. john had always prophesied dolefully that he would set up a practice in forest glen with her as his housekeeper. they would live in old sandy mclachlan's log house, for he was sure he could not afford anything better, and it would suit lizzie's style of housekeeping.

the reference to the old place cleared some misty memory that had been struggling for recognition in elizabeth's brain. she stopped short on the street—"eppie!" she said, almost aloud. could it be eppie she had seen on newton street, and could that old man be her grandfather?