Joyce was not a modernist. She had been taught to believe the Bible literally, and found no difficulty with miracles. She was not dumb nor ignorant. She knew that the academic world was largely inclined to put aside all that was miraculous, and to doubt everything that they had not seen happen in every-day life; but she looked upon such as souls who had not chosen to accept God’s way of proof, the proof that comes to the soul of every true believer who takes God at His word, and cannot doubt because He knows. Miracles never had bothered her, because if God could make _anything_ why couldn’t He make or do anything else? She had once heard a wonderful man who came to Meadow Brook to preach say that mystery was something that God knew but didn’t tell right away, and ever after that the mysteries that she found in the Scriptures had been but more beautiful to her. They never troubled her nor made her doubt. She was a bright girl with a more than ordinary mind and a fair education, but she accepted the things of the kingdom as a little child and when some one pointed out to her a spot that seemed a contradiction to facts as she knew them she would smile and say, then _she_ had made some mistake, not God, and not His word. That was how Aunt Mary brought her up. More and more as Aunt Mary drew nearer to the end of this life and saw how miserably she had failed to teach her own son heavenly things did she yearn to give this dear girl something substantial to stand upon when all else failed. And if she had not left Joyce anything else she had left her a great Faith in the living God and in His Word. But it was growing late in the afternoon and Joyce was weary. The night was coming on again and the question of light had not been settled. Perhaps she had better run over and get some candles and a few more things for supper. She was hungry as a bear, and the can of soup seemed a forgotten dream. So she went to the store again, and when she came back and had eaten some sandwiches of dried beef and bread and butter and drunk some milk she felt better, and set to work to arrange her box furniture to advantage. There were the two barrels. They were to make easy chairs, one for herself and one for any possible company that might come in. They would have to wait to materialize until she could buy material to upholster and cover them, and until she had time to work over them. They would need sawing. Oh, they must wait, but when they were finished they would stand here, and here--she wheeled them into place. And right here between them should stand a table--she placed the biggest square box there, and imagined a lamp with a pretty shade, and some magazines lying on it.