“I know,” said Adele, her own eyes filling.  “I have found Him there.  And I think one reason why so many Christians seem to have no joy is because they have not come to His altar in the sense you mean.  Perhaps they have seen Christ there for them in some sense, but have never quite taken their place there with Him.  Do you remember, too, Winifred, that it was when the burnt offering began on that great occasion in Hezekiah’s time that ‘the song of the Lord began also?’”

“Oh, yes!” Winifred responded. “‘The song of the Lord!’ It has surely begun here, Adele.”

And so it had, indeed.  That evening as Hubert returned from a busy day in town he found his sister singing;

  “’O joy that seekest me through pain,
  I cannot close my heart to thee;
  I trace the rainbow through the rain,
  And feel the promise is not vain
  That morn shall tearless be.’”

“Singing, little sister?” was his greeting.

“Yes, Hubert.  That has been much of my occupation to-day.”

“That is good,” he replied.  “By the way, I heard some news in town to-day.”  He endeavored to speak carelessly, but looked at her apprehensively.

“Yes?  What is it?”

He walked to the window and examined a flower with apparent interest.

“I hear that George Frothingham’s engagement to Miss Randolph, the banker’s daughter, is announced.”

“Yes,” said Winifred calmly, “I saw that in the morning paper.  You need not have been afraid to tell me, Hubert.  His engagement is a matter of perfect indifference to me.”

“Thank the Lord!” Hubert exclaimed impulsively.

“Amen,” she responded, still calmly.

On another evening Hubert returned with still another piece of news.  He had gone to the Cleary Street Mission to speak, and was late in returning.  Winifred, who loved to hear accounts of all his meetings, waited up for him.  She was in her little sitting-room when he returned.  He came straight to her door and answered her ready “come in” with a light step and glowing face.  He plunged at the special matter of joy at once.

“Winifred,” he said, “I am not going to China alone.”

The color changed in her face at the sudden announcement.

“Who—­who is it, Hubert?  Is it—?”

“Adele.”

“Oh, Hubert, I am so glad!” she cried joyfully, and kissed him in warm congratulation.

Then suddenly the thought of her own loss intruded.  Must she give her up also?  Her eager gladness turned to a burst of tears.  How swept of all whom she had loved, except her dear father, seemed the home scenes now.  She would gladly have restrained herself for Hubert’s sake, but the sudden grief was uncontrollable.  She sobbed convulsively, as when years ago some childish grief had broken in storms upon her and Hubert had stood by in tearless but painful sympathy, suggesting boyish consolations, ready to sacrifice any plaything or possession that might mend her broken heart.  Now he stood helplessly before this passionate outburst.