Marion was allowed to choose her own church, and at once joined a Bible class, where her hunger for instruction so animated her classmates and so encouraged her teacher that the most happy results followed. During the hours in the day devoted to secular studies Marion worked with all her might. She knew it to be right to do her very best, and even with the branches of exact science, which were irksome, she conquered her reluctance and soon made her mark as a scholar of unusual ability. Music was, however, her specialty. It was passion with her, and even before her parents' death, her skill as a pianist as well as her power with her voice distinguished her. "How plainly I can see a Father's hand leading me all the way through!" she used to say. "He gave me the ability to sing, and when the right time came He allowed me the privilege of using my voice for the comfort of others." She alluded to the fact of being invited by a gentleman connected with her Sunday school to sing for the patients at the "Home for the Sick." In connection with this first visit she used to say,— "Never did I know such real happiness as when I found myself able to comfort those those poor, weary ones, Christ's own sufferers. When one woman, taking my hand, thanked me with moistened eyes for the words of cheer, it was an impulse I could scarcely resist to fall on my knees and thank her for letting me sing for her. 'You have lighted the path to the grave. I'm not afraid now,' gasped one whose wings were plumed for her flight. "Oh!" exclaimed Marion, clasping her hands to her breast as she recalled the scene. "Who am I, that I should be so blessed?" During the summer months Mr. Williamson usually travelled with his family or passed the time at some fashionable resort, and it was his earnest wish that Marion should accompany them. But after a week spent at a gay hotel she told her uncle she found it unendurable; and insisted on going alone, if he could not find an escort for her, to visit her Aunt Asbury. She arrived when the whole family were watching the fading away of a young life. Helen, the oldest daughter, about whom so many hopes had clustered, the light of the home, the pride of parents and friends, had received a summons to leave all that had hitherto been so dear and enter on the unknown,— the infinite. Shuddering with fear, she turned to her parents for help, but they could only weep and wring their hands. At length their clergyman was summoned, and from this hour his visits were frequent. The knitted brow had given way to a calm seriousness, as with trembling lips she said, "I do believe Christ is my Saviour, and that He will lead me safely home." Her parents, too, if not really submissive, were trying to say, "Thy will be done."