It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he might be grieving just as deeply over her absence and the mystery of her whereabouts as was she for him, or she would have flown to him in spite of all mothers-in-law, and made him glad. The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer storm, and was gone. At her age she could not grieve long over what had been hers so briefly that it had scarcely become tangible. But as it had been the dearest happening of her life, and the only bright thing in her girlhood, it took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the monotonous tasks of life. She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and dressed herself carefully in her green silk for church, arranging her hair demurely on the top of her head, with the curls as little in evidence as possible. She wished to look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by herself, and looking for a chance to teach school. The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down the street to the church her heart went out to it. As she sat in the tall pew where the beadle placed her, she glanced shyly around at the people who came in, and wished she might stop here and get something to do. Yet her heart shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help. A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a sweet-faced child with a chubby face, and ringlets in clusters on either cheek, held there by her fine white, dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and face-ruche of soft lace. After they were seated, across the aisle, the little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn, then smiled shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she had one friend in this strange place.