One absurd little incident she often laughed over afterward. It happened that in the “On-looker” there was a quotation from some unnamed medieval writer; she and her father had a discussion as to whom it could be, Raeburn maintaining that it was Thomas a Kempis. Wishing to verify it, Erica went to a bookseller's and asked for the “Imitation of Christ.” A rather prim-looking dame presided behind the counter. “We haven't that book, miss,” she said, “it's quite out of fashion now.” “I agree with you,” said Erica, greatly amused. “It must be quite out of fashion, for I scarcely know half a dozen people who practice it.” However, a second shop appeared to think differently, for it had Thomas a Kempis in every conceivable size, shape, and binding. Erica bought a little sixpenny copy and went back to the beach, where she made her father laugh over her story. They verified the quotation, and by and by Erica began to read the book. On the very first page she came to words which made her pause and relapse into a deep reverie. “But he who would fully and feelingly understand the words of Christ, must study to make his whole life conformable to that of Christ.” The thought linked itself in her mind with some words of John Stuart Mill's which she had heard quoted till she was almost weary of them. “Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find a better translation for the rule of virtue from the abstract into the concrete, than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approve our life.” While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted her notice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach, trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heart would break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and consoling, but at last, finding it impossible to draw forth an intelligible word from the sobs and tears, she took the little thing in her arms and carried her to her father. Raeburn was a great child lover, and had a habit of carrying goodies in his pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with whom he was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute. “She must have lost her way,” he said, glancing from the lovely little tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands of the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently she volunteered a remark. “Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ran away.” “Where is your home?” asked Erica. “Me don't know! Me don't know!” cried Dolly, bursting into tears again, and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. “Father! Father, Dolly wants father.” “We will come and look for him,” said Erica, “but you must stop crying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look for you.” At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if expecting to see him close by. “He isn't there,” she said, piteously.