"Whate'er my God ordains is right; Though I the cup must drink, That bitter seems to my faint heart, I will not fear nor shrink. Tears pass away With dawn of day; Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart, And pain and sorrow all depart. "Whate'er my God ordains is right; My Light, my Life is he, Who cannot will me aught but good,— I trust him utterly; For well I know, In joy or woe, We soon shall see, as sunlight clear, How faithful was our Guardian here. "Whate'er my God ordains is right; Here will I take my stand, Though sorrow, need, or death make earth For me a desert land. My Father's care Is round me there; He holds me, that I shall not fall, And so to him I leave it all." Before she had ended, the door softly opened and was left ajar. Marion started at the sound of wheels. "There is Mr. Angus!" she exclaimed; "but I cannot go yet. I feel as though I had known you all my life. I have to go to New York to-day. I want you to go to the city. Why will you not come to me? I have room for all of you. Yes, that will be best. It will be next to having my mother with me. I can insure you a quiet room. Will you come?" Mrs. Douglas closed her eyes; tears called forth by such kindness from a stranger, trickled through the eyelids. Striving for self-control she said,— "Mr. Angus told me you were an angel of mercy. Never did any strangers in a strange land need friends more than we do. I have prayed night and day that my heavenly Father would raise up for my poor Juliette and Eugene Christian friends. He has answered my prayers. I will consider your proposal to go to New York, where board within our means can perhaps be obtained near you. For Juliette's sake I would be glad to be there." "I regret so much that business of importance calls me home to-day, but I will find a place at once, if you will not accept my invitation. I am sure I can promise for Mr. Angus that he will be a good friend to you and attend to your removal." "Mamma, I'm going home with Mr. Angus," shouted Genie, bursting into the outer room. "I'm tired of staying here." "Miss Howard,"—the voice was so full of solemnity that Marion bent over the bed again to listen, her breath coming quickly,—"you do not seem like a stranger. Mr. Angus told me I might confide in you. If I had time and strength I would tell you the sad story of my past life. I was gay and thoughtless, living for this world alone. I have been justly punished. Some time, if God gives me strength, I would like to tell you my sad story. If, after you know all, you are willing to be a friend to the dear ones I leave behind, the only burden left me will be removed." "I will gladly listen." With moistened eyes she had just answered, when Mrs. Cheriton opened the bedroom door, saying, "Your husband has returned, madam, and asks whether you are ready." Marion bent over the bed and kissed the sick lady, glad to hide her blushing cheeks caused by Mrs. Cheriton's blunder. Then saying,—