The faint gold of the east was turning to a soft rose, the blue of the earth was growing brighter. And keeping pace with the growing light, the earth-chorus was swelling into a storm of music. Elizabeth thought of that dawn of her childhood days, and of her struggle to grasp its meaning. Now she knew. Its message came to her in the words of a hymn. They were the words they had sung in Forest Glen Church the day they laid John in the grassy graveyard: "_But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day, The saints triumphant rise in bright array, The King of Glory passes on His way, Hallelujah!_" The King of Glory had come, and the gates of Elizabeth's soul had lifted up their heads that He might enter. She slipped noiselessly from the room, taking care to waken no one, and descended to her father's study. There she seated herself at the desk and strove to put upon paper the great hope and longing and happiness that were filling her heart. Charles Stuart was whistling at the garden gate before she noticed him. She ran down the path to meet him, brushing the dew from the border of mignonette with her light gown. "What a glorious day Eppie's going to have!" she cried, plucking a rosy sweet-pea that nodded over the gate. "I wish it was our day," Charles Stuart said enviously. "Two years more to wait, Lizzie." She smiled up at him hopefully. "But we'll make them beautiful years," she whispered. "See," she held up a sheet of paper. "I've done it again." He took it, but did not look at it immediately. For Elizabeth was as radiant as the morning, and his eyes could not turn from her so soon. He did not need to be a Pretender any more either, for the love-light in his eyes was answered by her own. As they walked down the lane with the sunrise gleaming in Elizabeth's uncovered head, he read her verses. "Has it a soul?" she asked mischievously. There was a mist in Charles Stuart's deep eyes as he turned towards her. "Lizzie! It has an immortal soul! It's a musical morning-glory! It has come at last, hasn't it?" "It was my own fault that it was so long in coming," she said. "But I think it was waiting for you, Stuart." Charles Stuart's answer was not verbal, but it was more expressive than the most eloquent words. They plunged gayly down the bank of the creek, hand in hand like two children. "Oh, oh," cried Elizabeth, "just look at the forget-me-nots! I'm going to make a wreath of them for Eppie's hair." Far up the creek, a cat-bird, hidden amongst scented basswood blossoms, was singing a gay medley of purest music. On either side the banks were hidden in a luxury of reeds, water-lily leaves, blue forget-me-nots, and gay bobbing lady's-slippers. And between, the winding stream shone pink and gold in the sunrise. Charles Stuart stood watching his lady as she filled her hands with blossoms. "You love this place, don't you, 'Lizbeth of The Dale?" he said. "Love it? There is no spot on earth like it."