Rachel had been wondering what it was all about; why her mother was crying, and why they were saying good-bye; but she prepared to follow Mrs. St. John, to whom she was very devoted. Cicely still clung to her father. "Let me stay with you, father, father darling." The little white face raised to his, the gray eyes, so like his wife’s, all touched him infinitely; but he loosened her arms gently from about his neck. "My sweet child, it could not be: you must let me judge, darling. I should love to have you, but it is quite impossible." "Oh father, do—do let me stay." "Cicely," said her father, tenderly, "I know you do not wish to unnerve me. I am sure you do not wish to make it harder for me, and, my dear little girl, it would increase my pain and anxiety in a ten-fold degree if I knew you were not in safety. Be my own sweet, brave child. Kiss me and then run up to your mother. I know you will do all you can for her." "Yes, yes; good-bye, good-bye, father darling." "Good-bye, my own dear child, my precious Cicely. Please God, we shall meet very soon again." He watched her as she turned slowly away, weeping quietly. "The bitterness of death is passed," he said to himself. "Now may the Lord enable me to do His will whatever it may be, and face with courage whatever lies before me." The room into which Mrs. St. John had retired with the nurse and children opened on to the side of the house, and it was possible to get from the verandah to the Mission-house, and from the Mission-house again to that of one of the native Christians hard by, and so on and so on—from one house to another, if only the people were willing—without ever being seen in the public street for about a mile, till the road to Wei-hai-wei was reached. It had been decided between the husband and wife that if things looked serious they should escape in this way from the house and village to Wei-hai-wei. They were to put on Chinese dresses, so as to court observation as little as possible, and take money and food for the journey.