Connie had wanted to take her sled with her, but this her aunt had forbidden, as she did the taking of a kitten when Connie proposed it. She would not mind having Chance, she said, patting the beautiful dog, who was keeping close to Connie as if he knew she was going. “He would be splendid for the sea-shore next summer.” But the dog was not for sale, the deacon said, and then it was time to go if they would catch the New York train. Kenneth went to the station with them, and felt as if his throat would burst when the last good-bye was said and Connie’s bright face had disappeared in the car which was taking her away “forever, I am afraid,” he said to himself, as he drove back to the house, which seemed so empty and still. The little muddy sled on which he had drawn the child many a mile was standing on the front doorstep, and he took it to the pump and cleaned it and carried it to the garret and hung it away reverently, sadly, as we put aside some article the dead have worn. As he came down the stairs he met Chance, holding something white in his mouth, and shaking his head and stamping his feet, his way of attracting attention. It was one of Connie’s handkerchiefs, used on Christmas Day, and left in the inclosure to which Chance, on his way home from the station, had made a detour. It was stained with sugar and grape juice, but Kenneth washed it at the pump as he had the sled, and taking it to the garret, spread it over the sled to dry. Two days later there came a letter from Mrs. Hart, telling of her safe arrival home, and saying Connie was well and sent her love and a prayer-book to Kenneth. It was a very handsome edition, and on the fly leaf Connie had printed in big letters, “TO KENNETH, FROM CONNIE.” She had wanted to add, “with love,” but her aunt objected. So she printed on a piece of paper which she put in the book: “With Connie’s love, and you’ll find ‘I believe’ and ‘stir up’ and ‘miserable sinners’ and everything in it.”