“Come around tomorrow, and we’ll take a look about the city,” said one of the elders to Chester.  “Sitting cramped over a desk day after day, makes it necessary for me to get out once in a while.”

The afternoon of the following day, Chester called for his friend in the office, and they set out.  “I want you to get rid of the first impressions of Liverpool,” explained the elder.  “I want you to get away from the noise and dirt to the green and quiet and beauty of the town.”

First they took a car to the Botanical Gardens, looked at the flower beds and inspected the palm-house.  Then they walked across the open to the farther side, followed a short street or two into the big, open grass-covered Wavertree Playground.  Thence it was a short walk to Sefton Park with its varied and extensive beauties.  They watched the children sail their toy crafts on the lake.  There were some men even, trying out model boats.  The bird cage was interesting.  The grotto, as usual, was hard to find.  The palm-house took a good part of their time, for the beautiful statue of Burn’s Highland Mary, gleaming white from a bed of green, took Chester’s attention, as also the historical figures surrounding the house.  One of these was of Columbus with an inscription claiming that he had very much to do with the making of Liverpool, which is no doubt true.

The weather was fine, the air was balmy; many people were out.  Chester and his companion strolled about the walks and across the velvety stretches of grass.  They watched for a time, a “gentlemanly game of cricket,” but it was too slow altogether for the Americans.

It was well towards sundown when the two young men took a car back to Islington.  “Another day we’ll see Newsham Park, and the country around Knotty Ash way.  Then again, there is some beautiful country up the Mersey and across to Birkenhead.”  The visitor was grateful for these offers.

That evening Chester addressed some post-cards to his few friends in Chicago, one to Hugh Elston, one to Elder Malby in London, and one to Lucy May Strong, Kildare Villa, Cork, Ireland.  He lingered somewhat over this latter, lost somewhat in wonder at recent events.  Was not this ocean trip and the Irish experience a dream?  The noise and smoke about him were surely that of Chicago, and he was sitting in his room there in his normal condition of homelessness and friendlessness?  Had he not that day been out with an elder from the Chicago Church office to Lincoln Park and the lakeside?  Surely Lucy and the minister, and Kildare Villa and Blarney were figments of a pleasant dream!  Chester walked back and forth in the small room.  He stopped before a dingy map of Great Britain on the wall.  His finger touched Ireland, moved southward, and stopped at Cork.  Yes; there was such a place, any way, so there must be Shandon Bells and the Blarney Stone, and a rustic seat under the trees at Blarney Castle.  Well, if all else under the sun were imaginary, that hour of bliss at Blarney when Chester told Lucy he loved her, and Lucy told Chester the same sweet words—­that was real.  He would live in that reality, for it far surpassed his dreams.