Oh, that I had wings, yea wings like a dove, Then would I flee away and be at rest; Lo, the dove hath wings because she is a dove, God gave her wings and bade her build her nest. Thy wings are stronger far, strong wings of love, Thy home is sure in His unchanging rest. Elizabeth went up to London by the 12.22, which is a fast train, and only stops once. She found Agneta, worn, tired, and cross. “Thank Heaven, you’ve come, Lizabeth,” she said. “All my relations have been to see me. They are so kind. They are so _dreadfully_ kind, and they all talk about its being God’s Will, and tell me what a beautiful thing resignation is. If I believed in a God who arranged for people to murder each other in order to give some one else a moral lesson, I’d shoot myself. I really would. And resignation is a perfectly horrible thing. I do think I must be getting a little better than I used to be, because I wasn’t even rude to Aunt Henrietta, who told me I ought not to repine, because all was for the best. She said there were many trials in the married state, and that those who did not marry were spared the sorrow of losing a child or having an unfaithful husband. I really wasn’t rude to her, Lizabeth—I swear I wasn’t. But when I saw my cousin, Mabel Aston, coming up the street—you always can see her a mile off—I told Jane to say that I was very sorry, but I really couldn’t see any one. Mabel won’t ever forgive me, because all the other relations will tell her that I saw them. I told them every one that I was perfectly certain that Douglas was all right. And so I am. Yes, really. But, oh, Lizabeth, how I do hate the newspapers.” “I shouldn’t read them,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t! Nothing would induce me to. But I can’t stop my relations from quoting reams of them, verbatim. By the by, do you mind dining at seven to-night? I want to go to church. I don’t want you or Louis to come. Heavens, Lizabeth, you’ve no idea what a relief it is not to have to be polite, and say you want people when you don’t.” When Agneta had gone out Elizabeth talked to Louis for a little, and then read. Presently she stopped reading and leaned back with closed eyes, thinking first of Agneta, then of herself and David. Louis’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. “Lizabeth, what _is_ it?” She was startled. “Oh, I was just thinking.” He frowned. “What is the good?” he said. “I told you I could see. You’re troubled, horribly troubled about something. And it’s not Agneta. What is it?” Elizabeth was rather pale. “Oh, Louis,” she said, “please don’t. I’d rather you didn’t. And it’s not what you think. It’s not really a trouble. I’m puzzled. I don’t know what to do. There’s something I have to think out. And it’s not clear—I can’t quite see——” Louis regarded her seriously. “If any man lack wisdom,” he said. “That’s a pretty good thing in the pike-staff line. Good Lord, fancy me preaching to you. It’s amusing, isn’t it?” He laughed a little. Elizabeth nodded.