Marjorie looked. Upon the page of births, near the bottom of the list of her father’s brothers and sisters, she saw a horizontal black strip—perhaps a quarter of an inch high—extending the full width of the page, where an entry in the record had been crossed out again, and again, and again, by a thick quill pen. She had seen it before, and had asked what it meant—without success. Now apparently she was to know. "That," said Albert Clegg, "was my youngest sister." "Your Aunt Eliza," added Uncle Fred. "When she was nineteen," continued Clegg, "she ran away from home—to go on the Stage." "Hoo! Where?" asked Marjorie, intensely interested. "London, my father thought; but he never enquired." "He never—? You mean—?" "He blotted her name out of the Book, and it was never mentioned in our home again." "And not one of you ever tried to find what had become of her?" "Certainly not." Marjorie looked up at her father and drew a long and indignant breath. "Well—!" she began. "And now," explained Uncle Fred, "it’s coming out in you, my girl." What was coming out Marjorie did not trouble him to explain. It is doubtful if she heard him at all. "You mean to say," she said hotly to her father, "that your father let his own daughter go right out of sight and mind, just like that?" "He did. And I want to say to you, my daughter, that I think he was right. This life is a preparation for the next. As we live now, so shall we be rewarded hereafter. A few years’ empty pleasure and excitement are a poor exchange for an eternity of punishment." "That’s right! Take no risks!" recommended the sage at the other end of the table. "Safety first!" "The wisest life," concluded Mr. Clegg, "is the safe life. The safe life is the Christian life, and the sure foundation of the Christian life is family life—united, wisely controlled, family life. So you will stay at home and live that life; and some day you will be grateful. Now go to bed. I appreciate your honesty in telling me what is in your mind, but my advice to you is forget all about it. Good-night!" "Don’t forget your prayers!" added Uncle Fred. *III* Marjorie finished her breakfast without further flippancy, and in due course the family set out for church in the Rolls-Royce. That is to say, Mr. and Mrs. Clegg, Uncle Fred, Marjorie, and the younger children—Miss Amy, already mentioned, and Masters James and John, aged ten and eight—were packed into that spacious vehicle and driven into Craigfoot, with meticulous observation of the speed limit and all the windows up. Amos and Joe followed in the two-seater. The servants had the waggonette. The parish kirk at Craigfoot has already been described in some detail, but it may be worth while to record a few observations made from a different angle.