James Seton rose from the table and looked at the dismal dripping day, then he smiled down at his daughter. "After twenty years in Glasgow I'm about weather-proof, Lizbeth. If I don't go to-day I can't go till Saturday, and I'm just afraid she may be needing help. I'll see one or two other sick people on my way home." Elizabeth protested no more, but followed her father into the hall and helped him with his coat, brushed his hat, and ran upstairs for a clean handkerchief for his overcoat pocket. As they stood together there was a striking resemblance between father and daughter. They had the same tall slim figure and beautifully set head, the same broad brow and humorous mouth. But whereas Elizabeth's eyes were grey, and faced the world mocking and inscrutable, her father's were the blue hopeful eyes of a boy. Sorrow and loss had brought to James Seton's table their "full cup of tears," and the drinking of that cup had bent his shoulders and whitened his hair, but it had not touched his expression of shining serenity. "Are you sure those boots are strong, Father? And have you lots of car-pennies?" "Yes. Yes." Elizabeth went with him to the doorstep and patted his back as a parting salutation. "Now don't try to save money by walking in the rain; that's poor economy. And oh! have you the money for Mrs. Morrison?" "No, I have not. That's well-minded. Get me half a sovereign, like a good girl." Elizabeth brought the money. "We would need to be made of half-sovereigns. Remember Mrs. Morrison is only one of many. It isn't that I grudge it to the poor dears, but we aren't millionaires exactly. Well, good-bye, and now I'm off on the quest of Women's Foreign Mission funds." Her father from half-way down the gravel-path turned and smiled, and Elizabeth's heart smote her. "I'll try and go with jubilant feet, Father," she called. A few minutes later she too was ready for the road, with a short skirt, a waterproof, and a bundle of missionary papers. Looking at herself in the hall mirror, she made a disgusted face. "I hate to go ugly to the church-people, but it can't be helped to-day. My feet look anything but jubilant; with these over-shoes I feel like a feather-footed hen." Ellen came out of the dining-room, and Elizabeth gave her some instructions. "If Master David is in before I'm back see that he takes off his wet boots at once, will you? And if Miss Christie comes, tell her I'll be in for tea, and ask her to wait. And, Ellen, if Marget hasn't time--I know she has some ironing to do--you might make some buttered toast and see that there's a cheery fire." "Yes, mum, I will," said Ellen earnestly. Once out in the rain, Elizabeth began to tell herself that there was really something rather nice about a thoroughly wet November day. It made the thought of tea-time at home so very attractive.