Winifred had had a happy evening, and the reflection that looked back at her from the glass in her dressing-room was radiant.  But, after all, in the depths of her heart there was a tinge of something sad, an unsatisfied sense of some good thing wanting.  What was it that the evening lacked?  A little book upon the table suggested the answer with a mute reproach.  In all the evening’s pleasure there had been no sweet savor of Jesus Christ.  Now as she took the book and tried to read her heart beat coldly toward Him.  The words did not speak to her, but seemed like misty voices far away, spoken for other ears.  The tide of another love had come sweeping in, strong and insistent.  George Frothingham’s face smiled before her, and instead of the words she was reading she heard his voice as they sang together: 

  “I would that my love could silently
  Flow in a single word.”

She looked away from the book and gave herself to dreaming until the little clock reminded her of the hour.  Then she roused from her reverie.

“It is too late,” she thought.  “I will not try to read now.  In the morning I will make up for it.”

She knelt beside the bed for her customary evening prayer, and found herself “saying” it as in former days.  She stopped abruptly.

“Forgive me, Lord,” she said, “I did not think what I was saying.”

Then a feeling of remorse, of real unhappiness, seized her.  Where was the true worship she had coveted and found?  It had flown like a bird from her windows.  In distress she prayed: 

“O Lord, I have missed Thee!  I cannot see Thy face, I do not hear Thee.  Do not let me lose Thee!”

Her wandering thoughts came back to the supreme need.  She was not versed in the theology of any school, and could not have stated her case to suit any.  But her sensitive soul barometer registered danger in the atmosphere, and she had no rest until it changed.  Being blessed with the grace of honesty—­with “truth in the inward parts”—­she poured out her heart before God, and found much relief in so doing.  The whole subject did not clear at once.  A process was required for that.  But a simple understanding with her Lord that He was to be first at any cost was re-affirmed, and it gave rest.  With the restored sense of His fellowship she slept.

Morning dawned with the sweet twittering of birds, the breath of syringas and roses, and a faultless sky.  It was a joy to live.

Hubert was out for an early ride, and his black horse Sahib’s satin coat shone brightly in the morning sunlight.  He took the shortest way out of the city and was soon cantering gently down the country road beside a singing brook, filling his eyes with the beauty everywhere, worshiping its Maker, and wondering how he might best serve Him.