When she paid the charges on a consignment of books a few minutes later, and unwrapped them, she thought of her dear friend who had brought her attention to the work. How much she would have liked to see her, she did not conjecture; but she was glad now she had taken up the work. The returns from the sale of it, had meant a great deal to the home in the past months. Wilson, who usually made some money otherwise than what he received from the church, which was small, had been unable to look after or give his time to anything but the work of the Y.M.C.A. Therefore, the money from the sale of the book had come in at an opportune time. As for Mildred, the earth seemed to have swallowed her, insofar as they had been able to ascertain. Wilson had worried to a point where he now looked ten years older than he had six months before. Grantville had given up in despair. Five thousand dollars was all they had been able to raise, and, therefore, realized how useless it was to continue the effort, which had subsequently come to an end. She believed in her brother; she was confident he could raise the amount necessary, if he had the time. If the gift from the Jew could have been possible a year hence, she was confident he could raise the balance; but, with less than four weeks, it seemed hopeless. And yet, "as long as there is life there is hope!" He would go north the coming Monday--this was Friday--and she hoped he would be successful. Until he returned, she would not despair. She made preparations for his departure, by packing his steamer trunk, washed his handkerchiefs, purchased many little necessities from her own purse, and placed them along with the rest of his belongings. "Will you go to New York or Chicago?" she inquired as they sat at dinner. "I suppose the chances are better beyond New York. I shall, of course, go directly to New York, but from there I will go into New England. I have credentials from several well known white people, as well as letters from the secretary of the white Y.M.C.A. here, and at Effingham and Attalia, so I think that part is quite sufficiently looked after." When Reverend Wilson Jacobs had dined, he felt like walking, and, drawing on a light overcoat and cap, he strolled out into the chill December night. The air was still, and the stars gleamed brightly, as he strolled down the street in the direction of the river. When he had gone three blocks, he decided to walk to the river, and look out upon its water for a spell. So, increasing his speed, he walked briskly in that direction.