But riding did not help as she had hoped. She would go back. A half hour later she left the horse at the stable, and walked homeward, alone with her grief. She could not bear to see the girls just yet, so she turned aside and followed the woodsy little path that led to St. Helen’s Retreat. It was still there—comfortingly still. She pushed open the door, and entered the little chapel, through whose long and narrow windows the sunlight fell in golden shafts upon the floor, and upon the white cloth that covered the little altar. Obeying something deep within her heart, Virginia knelt by the altar rail; and somehow in the stillness, the beauty and faithfulness of Jim’s honest life overcame a little the sadness of his death. [Illustration: “Virginia knelt by the altar rail.”] How long she knelt there she did not know, but all at once she felt an arm around her, and heard Miss Wallace’s voice say: “Why, my dear child, what is it? Come out into the sunlight and tell me. You will take cold in here!” Together they went out under the pines where the sun was warm and bright; and sitting there, with Miss Wallace’s arms around her, Virginia told of her sorrow, and of dear old Jim, of whom Miss Wallace had already heard. Then she read her father’s letter, and the tears which stood in Miss Wallace’s eyes quite overflowed when she came to the part about the meadow-lark. “And he loved the meadow-lark so!” sobbed Virginia. “It seems as though that one must have known!” “Perhaps it did,” Miss Wallace said with dear comfort. “I like to think that birds know many things that we cannot—many of the sweetest things like that.” “Oh, you’re such a help!” breathed Virginia, the burden upon her heart already lighter. “You see, the others can’t understand why I loved him so. But you just seem to know some way.” “I think I do know, dear,” Miss Wallace told her as they rose to go up the hill. “I want you always to tell me the things that trouble you, Virginia, and the things that make you glad, because we’re real friends now, you know; real friends for always!” And even in the midst of her grief, Virginia was happy—happy in the knowledge that she had gained a friend—a “real friend for always.” In the hard days that followed, when so few understood why it was that the merry girl from Wyoming had suddenly grown less merry, that friendship was a tower of strength to Virginia—giving her courage and happiness when she most needed both; and proving, as it has proven so many times, that there is no sweeter, finer influence in life than the mutual helpfulness born of a friendship between a teacher and one of “her girls.” CHAPTER XI THE DISCIPLINING OF MISS VAN RENSAELAR “On, of course, Dorothy, do as you like! If you’d rather play tennis with the Wyoming Novelty than go down to the village with me, go ahead. Don’t think for a moment that I care!” Imogene leaned idly back among the pillows, while Dorothy studied the rug with a flushed face.