"You mustn't grudge me my share of the work," said Mrs. Raeburn.
"It would make me very miserable if I did hinder you or your
father."

Erica sighed."You and father are so dreadfully public-spirited!
And yet, oh, mother! What does the whole world matter to me if I
think you are uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone?"

"You will learn to think differently, dear, by and by," said her
mother, kissing the eager, troubled face. "And, when you fancy me
lonely, you can picture me instead as proud and happy in thinking
of my brave little daughter who has gone into exile of her own
accord to help the cause of truth and liberty."

They were inspiriting words, and they brought a glow to Erica's
face; she choked down her own personal pain. No religious martyr
went through the time of trial more bravely than Luke Raeburn's
daughter lived through the next four and twenty hours. She never
forgot even the most trivial incident of that day, it seemed burned
in upon her brain. The dreary waking on the dark winter morning,
the hurried farewells to her aunt and Tom, the last long embrace
from her mother, the drive to the station, her father's recognition
on the platform, the rude staring and ruder comments to which they
were subjected, then the one supreme wrench of parting, the look of
pain in her father's face, the trembling of his voice, the last
long look as the train moved off, and the utter loneliness of all
that followed. Then came dimmer recollections, not less real, but
more confused; of a merry set of fellow passengers who were going
to enjoy themselves in the south of France; of a certain little
packet which her father had placed in her hand, and which proved to