Mrs. Webb, though pleased that the girl seemed so contented, did not understand it. Considering that only six weeks had passed since she was living in the lap of luxury, it was strange that she did not seem to dread the privations before her. She would have been still more perplexed if she had been able to read the thoughts that were flitting through Meg's brain. For the girl was recognizing the fact that once more she was free, free to live her own life without let or hindrance; free to be herself and not obliged to copy another. And behind this knowledge was the fact that SOMEONE cared; that she possessed a Friend Who would never cast her off and that in trying to please Him, instead of losing her own personality, He would help her to perfect and ennoble it. In fact she was tasting for the first time the liberty of Christ's service: Whose service is perfect freedom. Not that Meg could possibly have put her vague thoughts and feelings into words. Had she been asked what had happened to make her look at life so differently and with such hope and courage, she would probably have answered in the common parlance of the London factory girl, "I've turned," and perhaps no words could have expressed or explained better her present position. Her face was turned towards the light, and consequently a different view of life had presented itself. The glory of the Radiant City was transfiguring the landscape, and it was only behind her that the darkness of despair lay. Even her thoughts about Sheila had changed. Bitterness had now no place in her heart. "She made a mistake, that's all," she would say to herself. "She didn't mean to hurt or harm me, and she was wonderful good to me." And Meg began to think that she saw now why she had been brought so low. Had she lived on at Friars Court, possibly she would never have recognized her need of the Great Friend because the lesser friend was engaging all her thoughts. Looking at Meg, Mrs. Webb began to wonder if to-morrow's excursion might not prove too much for her strength, but when the morning broke and the sun shone down in its glory, she felt that a day in the country would be just the thing for the girl. And she saw that Meg was anticipating it greatly. "My lady when I asked if she could let me off to-day seemed as anxious as I that we should go. I was telling her about you, Meg. And now Willie just you run into Mrs. Green's and get that secret I told you about. There's a good boy." The secret proved to be a lovely red rose which he handed with pride to Meg. "It's Mrs. Green that's given it to me," he said, "and told me I might give it to you. She's mighty pleased to hear you're back, she say, and I'm to tell you it's the last rose of summer." "How kind," said Meg. "But where did she get this rose? It's just a beauty." "Her uncle he's a gardener and came to see her yesterday. It comes from the country, and mother says you must wear it as it's my birthday."