But after that evening all was changed. A new life had come to the little girl, still almost a child in years. She had consecrated herself to his service who never causes one to regret such a consecration, and she had received in return the mystical gift, the white stone with a new name written thereon which no man knows but he that hath it. She felt herself accepted. She was no more alone, for one had promised to be with her to the end of the world. He could make hard things easy, or give more grace. He could turn even disgrace and shame to his glory. He would give her work to do for him, and strength and wisdom to do it, and what did she want more? Therese was no idle dreamer. She did not look forward to doing great things. She knew that not one in a thousand is called to a high place in the sight of men. But she had seen in her grandmother Duval, in Mrs. Tremaine and her cousin, yes, even in Kitty, young as she was, how the little cares and labours of every day may be sanctified so as to make everyday life a blessing to all around. That was what she asked for herself. Now a greater thing was asked of her, a real taking up of the cross. It was no small sacrifice to renounce such a plan as had been made for her, such a career as had been opened for her, to nurse her grandmother's declining years, to hear all the remarks that would be made and face the misconstructions that would perhaps be put upon her change of plans. She knew there would be trials of temper and patience both at home and abroad. She feared Grandfather Beaubien would be displeased, for the Beaubiens had always felt some lurking jealousy of old Madame Duval, who was the richest of the whole French settlement and had the credit of thinking herself better than her neighbours. Therese had come to that place where two roads met. One was fair and flowery, leading as it seemed to green pastures and beside still waters, to pleasant heights of prosperity; the other low and somewhat rugged, with few flowers or trees, and leading she could not see where. There was no stopping—no turning back. Therese made her choice. She believed that a beam from heaven shone on the narrow rugged path, that a voice said, "This is the way; walk ye in it," and after a moment's hesitation she resolutely and humbly set her feet therein. The next day she had a talk with Mrs. Tremaine and Kitty. Kitty could hardly be brought to listen, and exclaimed,— "After we have it all so nicely arranged! And what shall I do without you? I do think you are too bad, even to think of such a thing!" "Hush, dear!" said her mother. "Let us hear Therese tell her reasons." Therese opened her heart to the bottom. She could hardly have done it to any one else; but Mrs. Tremaine had been her Sunday school teacher for years, and Kitty was a second self. Mrs. Tremaine was convinced, and even Kitty was brought to say—