Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come. That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine. Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few; the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears are dull, and "their eyes they have closed." Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said, "No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses. We are not afraid." It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she unconsciously and softly sang,— "'Day is dying in the west, Heaven is touching earth with rest; Wait and worship while the night Sets her evening lamps alight—'" Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,— "'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou be near.'"