He must go, and soon. The briefer the parting the briefer the pang. He had already bidden his friends good-by; his parents were long since dead; it only remained to part from the old Indian woman, his nurse in childhood, now his faithful housekeeper and the only inmate of his home. He went to the kitchen,--for usually at this hour she was up and preparing breakfast. She was not there, and the room looked cold and cheerless in the gray dawn. He went to her door and knocked; there was no response. He called her; the room was as still as death. Alarmed, he opened the door; no one was within; she was gone,--had evidently been gone all night, for the bed was untouched. He was pained and bewildered at this desertion, for only the day before he had given her a paper legally drawn up, securing to her the little property he possessed and making her independent for the rest of her life. She had taken it, listened in silence to the kindly expressions that accompanied the gift, and turned away without a word. Now she was gone; what could it mean? Slowly he made the simple preparations that were needed for the journey--putting a little food, his Bible, and other necessaries into a kind of knapsack and strapping it upon his back. Then taking his staff, he went out from his home, never to return. The sun was rising, the air was fresh and dewy, but his heart was sad. Yet through it ran a strange thrill of joy, a strange blending of pain and gladness. "The parting is bitter, bitter almost unto death, but He will keep me," murmured the white lips, as he went down the walk. The sound of voices fell on his ears, and he looked up. At the gate, awaiting him, was a group of his parishioners, who had come to look once more on the face of their pastor. One by whose bedside he had prayed in the hour of sickness; another, whom his counsel had saved when direly tempted; a little lame child, who loved him for his kindness; and an aged, dim-sighted woman, to whom he had often read the Scriptures. He opened the gate and came out among them. "God bless you, sir," said the old woman, "we wanted to see your bonny face again before you left us." The little lame boy said nothing, but came up to Cecil, took his hand, and pressed it to his cheek in a manner more eloquent than words. "Friends," said Cecil, in a faltering voice, "I thank you. It is very sweet to know that you care for me thus." One by one they came and clasped his hand in tearful farewell. For each he had a loving word. It was an impressive scene,--the sorrow-stricken group, the pastor with his pale spiritual face full of calm resolve, and around them the solemn hush of morning. When all had been spoken, the minister reverently uncovered his head; the others did the same. "It is for the last time," he said; "let us pray."