Very sadly she sat down to write a note.

"My dear Friend," she wrote on plain paper with no crest. It

was like her to choose that. She would not flaunt her good

fortune in his face. She was a plain Montana girl to him, and so

she would remain.

"My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for

her health. Unexpectedly I find that we are to go to-day. I

supposed it would not be for a week yet. I am so sorry not to

see you again, but I send you a little book that has helped me

to get acquainted with Jesus Christ. Perhaps it will help you

too. It is called 'My Best Friend.' I shall not forget to pray

always that you may find Him. He is so precious to me! I must

thank you in words, though I never can say it as it should be

said, for your very great kindness to me when I was in trouble.

God sent you to me, I am sure. Always gratefully your friend, "ELIZABETH."

That was all, no date, no address. He was not hers, and she would hang out

no clues for him to find her, even if he wished. It was better so.

She sent the note and the little book to his address on Walnut Street; and

then after writing a note to her Grandmother Brady, saying that she was

going away for a long trip with Grandmother Bailey, she gave herself into

the hands of the future like a submissive but weary child.

The noon train to New York carried in its drawing-room-car Madam Bailey,

her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for Europe. The society

columns so stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days afterward. So

also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing to him.

When he received the note, his mind was almost as much excited as when he

saw the little brown girl and the little brown horse vanishing behind the

little brown station on the prairie. He went to the telephone, and

reflected that he knew no names. He called up his automobile, and tore up

to Flora Street; but in his bewilderment of the night before he had not

noticed which block the house was in, nor which number. He thought he knew

where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses were all alike for

three blocks, and for the life of him he could not remember whether he

had turned up to the right or the left when he came to Flora Street. He

tried both, but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed at

Willow Grove.

He could not ask where she lived, for he did not know her name. Nothing

but Elizabeth, and they had called her Bessie. He could not go from house

to house asking for a girl named Bessie. They would think him a fool, as

he was, for not finding out her name, her precious name, at once. How

could he let her slip from him again when he had just found her?




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