"I do not believe it," said Alice with feeling--"I never want to believe it--I never shall believe it." "My darling," said the mother, laying her face against Alice's, "I have reared you too far from the world." But for once in her life Mrs. Westmore knew that her daughter, who had heretofore been willing to sacrifice everything for her mother's comfort, now halted before such a chasm as this, as stubborn and instinctively as a wild doe in her flight before a precipice. Twice Alice knew that Richard Travis had called; and she went to her room and locked the door. She did not wish even to think of him; for when she did it was not Richard Travis she saw, but Maggie dying, with the picture of him under her pillow. She devised many plans for herself, but go away she must, perhaps to teach. In the midst of her perplexity there came to her Saturday afternoon a curiously worded note, from the old Cottontown preacher, telling her not to forget now that he had returned and that Sunday School lessons at Uncle Bisco's were in order. He closed with a remark which, read between the lines, she saw was intended to warn and prepare her for something unexpected, the greatest good news, as he said, of her life. Then he quoted: "_And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to his strength when the morning appeared._" There was but one great good news that Alice Westmore cared for, and, strange to say, all the week she had been thinking of it. It came about involuntarily, as she compared men with one another. It came as the tide comes back to the ocean, as the stars come with the night. She tried to smother it, but it would not be smothered. At last she resigned herself to the wretchedness of it--as one when, despairing of throwing off a mood, gives way to it and lets it eat its own heart out. She could scarcely wait until night. Her heart beat at intervals, in agitated fierceness, and flushes of red went through her cheek all the afternoon, at the thought in her heart that at times choked her. Then came the kindly old man himself, his face radiant with a look she had not seen on a face for many weeks. After the week she had been through, this itself was a comfort. She met him with feigned calmness and a little laugh. "You promised to tell me where you had been, Bishop, all these weeks. It must have made you very, very happy." "I'll tell you down at the cabin, if you'll dress yo' very pretties'. There's friends of yo's down there you ain't seen in a long time--that's mighty anxious to see you." "Oh, I do indeed feel ashamed of myself for having neglected the old servants so long; but you cannot know what has been on my mind. Yes, I will go with you directly."