Classic Audiobook Collection - The Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill ~ Full Audiobook [romance]

Episode Date: October 19, 2023

The Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill audiobook. Genre: romance When Hazel Winship feels a sudden tug of compassion, she acts on a whim that will change far more than her own quiet, well-ordered life. After Hazel and a circle of friends notice a shipment addressed to someone named Christie Bailey in Florida, they imagine a lonely young woman in need and begin sending small gifts and bright, encouraging letters. Hazel takes the lead, pouring warmth and sincerity into a friendship with a person she has never met. But the name Christie Bailey hides a startling truth: the recipient is not a young woman at all, but a struggling bachelor trying to hold on to an orange grove and a future that keeps slipping through his fingers. As the correspondence deepens, Hazel finds herself tangled in questions of honesty, duty, and the difference between doing good and doing it wisely. When plans are made to meet face-to-face, the distance between northern comfort and Florida hardship closes fast, and Hazel must decide what she truly believes about love, faith, and the God who can redeem even mistaken beginnings. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:12:15) Chapter 02 (00:29:08) Chapter 03 (00:40:07) Chapter 04 (00:57:27) Chapter 05 (01:19:00) Chapter 06 (01:34:48) Chapter 07 (01:50:50) Chapter 08 (02:07:19) Chapter 09 (02:24:16) Chapter 10 (02:40:21) Chapter 11 (02:52:30) Chapter 12 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill Chapter 1 Five Girls and Oregon and the Whim How cold it is, let's walk up and down the platform, girls. Why doesn't that train come? I'm going in to see if the agent knows anything about it, said the one with a determined mouth and big brown eyes. They waited shivering in a group until she returned,

five girls just entering womanhood. They were part of a small house party, spending Thanksgiving week at the old stone house on the hill above the station, and they had come down to meet another girl who was expected on the train. He says the train is half an hour late, said Hazel Winship, the hostess, coming down the stone steps of the station. What shall we do? There isn't time to make it worthwhile to go back to the house. Shall we go inside or walk? Oh, walk, by all means, said Victoria. Landis, it's so stuffy and hot in there that I feel like a turkey half-roasted from the little

time we stayed. Let's walk up this long platform to that freight house and watch the men unload that car, proposed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed. Victoria was humming. Oh girls, why didn't we stay and finish singing that short number? It was so pretty. Listen, is this right? And she hummed it over again. Yes, it was too bad we had to tear ourselves away from that dear piano, said Ruth Summers. Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your poor organ? Send it to a home missionary. I'll send it somewhere, I suppose. I don't know anyone around here to give it to. I wish I could send it where it would give pleasure to someone. Plenty of people would probably be delighted with it if you only knew them, the owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance. said Victoria, as they threaded their way between boxes and chairs that had been shoved out on the

platform from a half-empty freight car. Girls, just look at that funny old stove and those uncomfortable chairs. How would you like to set up housekeeping with that? The couch isn't so bad if it were covered, said Hazel, poking it in a gingerly way with her gloved finger. It looks as though it might have been comfortable once. That's Hazel all over, said as a If it were possible, she'd like to have that couch stay over a train or two while she recovered it with some bright denim and made a pillow for it. Clear girlish laughter rang out while Hazel's cheeks grew pink as she joined in. Well, girls, wouldn't that be interesting?

Just think how pleased the dear old lady who owns it would be when she found the new cover and how entirely mystified. You might send her your organ, suggested Ruth Summers. Perhaps she would like that just as well. What a lovely idea, said Hazel, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. I'll just do it. Come, let's look for the address. You romantic little goose, exclaimed her friends. Take her away. The perfect idea. I just believe she would.

Of course I would, said Hazel. Why shouldn't I? Papa said I might do as I please with it. Here, this is a card behind here. Read it. christie w bailey pine ridge florida girls i shall do it who has a pencil i want to write it down do all these things belong to the same person look on their cards she must be very poor poor as a church mouse said victoria if this is all she has i'd like to know how you're so sure it's a she said emily whitten christie sounds as though it might belong to a man or a boy don't you think so victoria it's an old nurse I'm positive, said Victoria. I don't believe Christy is an old nurse at all, said Hazel. She's a girl about our own age. She's had to go to Florida on account of her health,

and she's poor, too poor to board, so she'll keep house in a room or two, waving her hand toward the unpretentious huddling of furniture around them. And perhaps she teaches school. She'll put the organ in the schoolroom, or have a Sunday school in her own home. And I'll write her a note and say, some music for the children to learn. She can do lots of nice things with that organ.

Now Hazel protested four voices. But just then the shriek of a whistle brought them all about face and flying down the platform to reach the station before the train pulled up. In the bustle of welcoming the newcomer, Hazel's scheme was forgotten. Not until evening, when they were seated around the great open fire did it enter into conversation again. Victoria Landis told the newcomer about it. Oh, Marion, you can't think what Hazel's latest wild scheme of philanthropy is. But Marion, a girl after Hazel's own heart, listened with glowing eyes. Really, Hazel? She said, when the tale was finished, looking at her hostess with sympathy.

Won't that be lovely? You must send it in time for Christmas. And why not pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It would be great fun and give us something not entirely selfish to do while we're enjoying ourselves here. Do you mean it, said Victoria? Well, I won't be outdone. I'll give a covering for that old couch, and Ruth shall make a fantastic sofa pillow for it, like no other pillows seen in any house in Florida.

What color, blue or red? And will denim be fine enough? Or do you prefer tapestry or brocatelle? Speak up, Hazel. We're with you hand and heart, no matter how wildly you soar this time. And so amid laughter and jokes the plan grew. I have a lot of songbooks if you think there's really a chance of a Sunday school, said Esther.

There must be something pretty for the house, a good picture perhaps, mused Ruth Summers. Hazel's eyes grew bright with joy as she looked from one face to another and saw that they really meant what they said. Six pairs of hands can do much in four days. When the guests left for their various homes or schools, standing on the back porch of the old stone house on the hill, were a well-packed box marked and labeled and an organ securely boxed and a large role, all bearing the magic words Christy W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida. There was a great deal of discussion and argument between Mrs. Winship and her husband. They were inclined to think Hazelout did herself in romance this time, though they were used to such unprecedented escapades from her childhood. But she finally won them all over.

She explained how the goods were left at that particular freight station from up the branch road to be put on the through freight at the junction and enlarged upon the desolation of the life of that young girl who was moving to Florida alone. Finally, every member of the party became infected with pityful. for her, and bide with the others to make that Christmas box the nicest ever sent to a girl. They began to believe in Christy, and to wonder whether her name was Christine or Christiana, or simply Christy after some family name, and gradually all thought of her being other than a young

girl faded from their minds. Mother Winship had so far forgotten her doubts as to contribute a good smyrna rug no more in use in the stone house. She did so after the party went down to the station, watched the goods repacked in another freight car for the junction, and reported that there wasn't a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how they peaked through a crack of a box of books and distinctly saw the worn cover of a textbook, which proved the school-ma'am theory. While an old blue-checked apron, visible through another crack, settled the sex of Christie irrevocably. Hazel Winship had written a long letter in her delicate handwriting on her finest paper, sealed it with a prayer, and gone back to her college duties a hundred miles away. Christmas was fast approaching as the three freight pieces started on their way.

On the edge of a clearing where the tall pines thinned against the sky and tossed their garlands of gray moss from bow to bow, stood a little cabin built of logs. It was set up on stilts out of the hot white sand, and underneath a few chickens wandered aimlessly, as unaware of the home over their heads as mortals are of the heaven above them. Some sickly orange trees, apparently just set out, gave the excuse for the clearing, and beyond the distance stretched away into desolation and blackjack oaks. A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit of grass, which in that part of the world was so scarce that it was usually used for a path instead of being a setting for that path, would have done wonders for the place. But only the white neglected mushy sand was there,

discouraging alike to wheel and foot. Inside the cabin were a rusty cookstove, a sulky tea kettle at the back, and the remains of a meal in a greasy frying pan still over the dead fire. An old table was drawn out, with one leaf up, and piled with unwashed dishes, boxes of crackers and papers of various foods. The couch in the corner was evidently the old bed, and the red and gray blankets still lay in the heap where they were tossed when the occupant arose that morning. From some nails in the corner hung several articles of clothing and a hat. The corner by the door was given over to tools, and a few garden implements considered too good to leave. leave outside. Every chair but one was occupied by books or papers or clothing. Outside the back door,

a dry goods box by the pump with a tin basin and a cake of soap did duty as a washstand. On the whole, it was not an attractive home, even though sky and air were more than perfect. The occupant of this residence was driving dully along the sand road at the will of a stubborn little Florida pony. The pony wriggled his whole body with a motion intended to convey to his driver that he was trotting as fast as any reasonable being could expect a horse to go. In reality, the monotonous sand and scrub oaks were moving past as slowly as possible. It was the day before Christmas, but the driver didn't care. What was Christmas to one whose friends were all gone, and who never gave or received a Christmas gift? The pony, like all,

All slow things got there at last and trotted up to the post office in good style. The driver climbed out of the rickety wagon and went into the post office, which served also as a general store. Hello, Chris. Called a sickly-looking man from the group at the counter. Been a wonderin' when you was coming, got some old freight for you over to the station. The newcomer turned his broad shoulders around and faced the speaker. I haven't any more freight coming, he said. It's all come three weeks ago.

Well, but it's over there, insisted the other. Three pieces. Your name's marked plain, same's the other. Somebody sent you a Christmas gift, Chris, said a tall young fellow slapping him on the shoulder. Better go and get it. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Story of a Wem by Grace Livingston Hill. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters

Chapter 2 A Christmas Box that didn't match The young man, still insisting that the freight wasn't his, followed the agent reluctantly over to the station, accompanied by several of his companions who had nothing better to do than see the joke out. There they were, a box, a bundle, and a packing case, all labeled plainly and mysteriously, Christy W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida.

The man who owned the name could scarcely believe his eyes. He knew of no one who would send him anything. An old neighbor had forwarded the few things he had saved from the sale of the old farm after his father and mother died. And the neighbor had since died himself, so this could not be something forgotten. He felt annoyed at the arrival of the mystery and didn't know what to do. with the things. At last he brought over the wagon and reluctant pony, and with the help of the other men he loaded them. Christy Bailey didn't wait at the store that night as long as he usually did. He had intended to go home by moonlight, but decided to try to make it before the sunset. He wanted to understand about the freight at once. When he went back to the post office, he couldn't sit with

the same pleasure on a nail keg and talk as usual. His mind was on the wagon load, so he bought a few things and started home. The sun had brought the short winter day to a sudden close, as it has a habit of doing in Florida, by dropping out of sight and leaving utter darkness with no twilight. Christy lit an old lantern and got the things into the cabin at once. Then he took his hatchet and screwdriver and set to work. First the packing case, for he instinctively felt that herein lay the heart of the matter, but not until he pulled the entire front of the case and took out the handsome organ, did he fully realize what had come to him. More puzzled than ever, he stood back with his arms folded and whistled.

He saw the key attached to a card, and unlocking the organ, touched one of the ivory keys gently with his rough finger, as one might touch a being from another world. Then he glanced around to see where to put it. Suddenly, even in the dull smoky lamplight, the utter gloom and neglect of the place burst upon him. Without more ado, he selected the freest side of the room and shoved everything out of the way. Then he brought a broom and swept it clean. After that, he set the organ against the wall and stood back to survey the effect. The disorderly table and the rusty stove were behind him, and the organ gave the spot a strange, cleared-up appearance. He didn't feel at home.

Something must be done about the confusion behind him before he opened anything more. He felt somehow as if the organ were a visitor and mustn't see his poor housekeeping. He seized the frying pan, scraped the contents into the yard, and called the dog. The dishes he put into a wooden tub outside the door and pumped water over them. Then the masses of papers and boxes on the table and chairs, he piled into the darkest corner on the floor and straightened the row of boots and shoes. Having done all he could, he returned to the roll and box still unopened. The roll came first.

He undid the strings with awkward fingers and stood back in admiration once more when he brought to light a thick, bright rug and a Japanese screen. He spread the rug down and puzzled some time over the use of the screen. Finally, he stood it up in the worst end of the room and began on his box. There at last, on top was a letter in a fine unknown hand.

He opened it slowly, with a blouse. mounting into his face. He didn't know why, and read, Dear Christy, you see, I'm so sure you're a girl my age that I'm beginning my letter informally, and wishing you a very merry Christmas and a glad, bright New Year. Of course you may be an old lady, or a nice comfortable middle-aged one. Then perhaps you will think we're silly, but we hope and believe you're a girl like us, and so our hearts have open to you, and we're sending you some things for Christmas. The count of the afternoon at the freight station followed, written in Hazel's most winning way,

conveying her words and ways and almost the voices and faces of Victoria Landis and Ruth and Esther and Marion and the rest. The color on the young man's face deepened as he read, and he glanced up uneasily at his few poor chairs and miserable couch. Before he read further, he went and pulled the screen along to hide more of the confusion. He read the letter through, and his heart woke up to the world and to longings he never knew he possessed before, to the world in which Christmas has a place, and young, bright life gives joy. He read it to the end, where Hazel inscribed her bit of sermon full of good wishes and a prayer that the spirit of Christmas might reign in that home, and the organ might be a help and a blessing to all around. A look of almost helpless misery

crossed the young man's face when he finished. The good old times when God was a reality were such brought into his reckless, isolated life. He knew that God was God, even though he neglected him so long, and that tomorrow was Christmas Day. Seeking refuge from his own thoughts, he turned back to the brimming box. The first article he took out was a pair of dainty lavender slippers with black and white ermine edges and delicate satin bows. Emily Witton's aunt had knitted them for her to take to college with her, since Emily's feet were many sizes smaller than her aunt supposed, she never wore them and tucked them in at the last minute to make a safe place for a delicate glass vase. She said the vase would be lovely to hold flowers

on the organ on Sundays. The girls wrote their nonsense thoughts on bits of labels all over the things, and the young man read and smiled and finally laughed out loud. He felt like a little boy opening his first Christmas talking. Christy unpinned the paper on the couch cover and read in Victoria's large, stylish, angular hand, full directions for putting it on the couch. He glanced with a twinge of shame at the old lounge, and realized the girls had seen his shabby belongings and pitied him. He resented the whole thing, until the delight of being pitied and cared for overcame his bitterness, and he laughed again. A soft, restful green was chosen for the couch cover. It couldn't have fit better if Victoria Landis had secretly had a tape measure in her

pocket and measured the couch, which perhaps she did on her second trip to the freight house. Ruth Summers made the two pillows, large, comfortable and sensible, of harmonizing greens and browns and a gleam of gold here and there. With careful attention to the directions, the new owner dressed his old lounge and placed the pillows as directed, with a throw and a pat, not laid stiffly, from a postscript in Ruth's clear feminine hand. Then he stood back in awe that a Things so familiar and ugly could suddenly assume such an air of ease and elegance. Could he ever bring the rest of the room up to the same standard? But the box invited further investigation.

A bureau set of dainty blue and white, a cover for the top and pincushion to match, were packed inside, with a few yards of material and a rough sketch with directions for a possible dressing table, to be made of a wooden box in case Christie had no bureau. It was from Emily Witten. who said she couldn't remember seeing a bureau among the things, but she was sure any girl would know how to fix one up and perhaps be glad of some new things for it. The young man looked helplessly at these things.

He finally walked out into the moonlight and hunted up an old box, which he brushed off with the broom and brought inside. He clumsily spread the blue and white frill over its splintery top, then fumbled in the lapel of his coat for a pin and solemnly tried to stick it into the cushion. He was growing more bewildered with his new possessions. As each one came to light, he wondered how he could maintain and keep up to such luxuries. Mother Winship included a bright-knit Afghan, which looked perfect over the couch.

Next came a layer of Sunday school songbooks, a Bible and some lesson leaflets. A card said that Esther Wakefield sent these and hoped they would help in the new Sunday school. A roll of chalkboard cloth, a large cloth map of Palestine, and a barren. box of chalk followed. The young man grew more helpless. This was worse than the bureau set and the slippers. What was he to do with them? He start to Sunday school. He would more likely start children in the opposite way from heaven if he continued as he had the last two years. His face hardened. He was almost ready to sweep the whole lot back into the box, nail them up, and send them back where they came from. What did he want with a lot of trash with such burdensome obligations attached?

But curiosity made him return to see what was left in the box, and a glance around his room made him unwilling to give up this luxury. He looked curiously at the box of fluffy lace things with Marion Halston's card on top. He could only guess that they were some girls' things and wondered vaguely what he should do with them. Then he unwrapped a photograph of six girls, which was hurriedly taken and inscribed, guess which is which, with a list of their names written on a circle of paper like the spokes of a wheel. He studied each face with interest. Somehow it was for the letter writer he sought, Hazel Winship, and he thought he should know her at once. This would be very interesting to pass some of the long hours when there was nothing worthwhile to do. It would

keep him from thinking how long it took orange groves to pay, and what hard luck he'd always had. He decided at first glance that the one in the center with the clear eyes and firm mouth was the instigator of all this bounty. As his eyes traveled from one face to another and came back to hers each time, he felt more sure of it. Her gaze held something frank and pleasant in it. Somehow it would not do to send that girl back her things and tell her he didn't need her charity. He liked to think she'd thought of him, even if she did think of him as a poor, discouraged girl or an old woman. He stood the picture up against the pincushion lace and forever gave up the idea of trying to send those things back. One thing more was in the bottom of the box, fastened inside another protecting board.

He took it at last from its wrappings, a large picture, Hoffman's Head of Christ, framed in broad dark flemish oak to match the tint of the etching. Dimly he understood who the subject of the picture was, although he'd never seen it before. Silently he found a nail and drove it deep into the log of the wall. Just over the organ he hung it, without the slightest hesitation. He recognized at once where this picture belonged and knew that it, not the bright rug or the restful couch or the gilded screen, or even the organ itself, was to set the standard henceforth for his home and his life. He knew this without its quite coming to the surface of his consciousness. He was weary by this time, with the unusual excitement of the occasion.

He felt like a person suddenly lifted up a little way from the earth and obliged against his will to walk along unsupported in the air. His mind was in a whirl. He looked from one new thing to another, wondering more and more what they expected of him. The ribbons and lace for the bureau worried him, and the lace collars and pincushion. what did he have to do with such things those foolish little slippers mocked him with something that wasn't in his life a something for which he wasn't even trying to find himself the organ and the books and above all the picture seemed to dominate him and demand of him things he could never give a sunday school what an absurdity he

and the eyes of the picture seemed to look into his soul and to say quietly enough that he had come here now to live to take command of his house and its occupant he rebelled against it and turned away from the picture he hated all the things and yet the comfort of them drew him irresistibly In sheer weariness at last, he put out his light, and wrapping his old blankets around him, lay down upon the rug, for he would not disturb the couch lest the morning should dawn, and his new dream of comfort look as if it had fled away. Besides, how was he ever to get it together again? And when the morning broke and Christy awoke to the splendor of his things by daylight, the wonder of it dawned too, and he went about his work with the same spell still upon him. Now and again he raised his eyes to the pictured Christ and dropped them again reverently.

It seemed to him this morning as if that presence were living and had come to him in spite of all his railings at fate, his bitterness and scoffing, and his feckless life. It seemed to say with that steady gaze, what will you do with me? I am here, and you cannot get away from my drawing. It wasn't as if his life had been filled in the past with tradition and teaching, for his mother died. when he was a little fellow, and the thin-lipped, hard-working maiden aunt who had cared for him in her place. Whatever religion she might have had in her heart, never thought it necessary to speak it out, beyond requiring a certain amount of decorum on Sunday, and regular attendance at Sunday school.

In Sunday school it was his lot to sit under a good elder who read the questions from a lesson leaflet and looked helplessly at the boys who were employing their time in more pleasurable things. small amount of holy things he absorbed from his days at Sunday schools, failed to leave him with a strong idea of God's love or any adequate knowledge of the way to be saved. In later years, of course, he listened indifferently to preaching. When he went to college, a small insignificant one, he came into contact with religious people, but here too he heard as one hears a thing in which one hasn't the slightest interest. He had gathered and held this much, that the God in whom the Christian world

believed was holy and powerful, and that most of the world's inhabitants were culprits. Up to this time, God's love had passed him by unaware. Now the pictured eyes of the Son of God seemed to breathe out tenderness and yearning. For the first time in his life, the possibility of love between his soul and God came to him. His work that morning was much more complicated than usual. He wasted little time in getting breakfast. He had to clean house. He couldn't bear the idea that the old regime and the new should touch shoulders as they did behind that screen. So with broom and scrub brush he set to work. He had things in pretty good shape at last and was just coming in from giving the horse a belated breakfast. When a strange impulse seized him,

at his feet, creeping all over the white sand in delicate patterns, were wild pea blossoms of crimson white and pink. He never noticed them before. Weren't they just weeds? but with a new insight into possibilities in art he stooped and gathered a few of them holding them awkwardly he went into the house and put them into his new vase he felt ashamed of them and held them behind him as he entered but with the shame was mingled in eagerness to see how they would look in the vase on the blue bureau thing will you walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy sang out a rich tenor voice in greeting. I say, Chris, what are you setting up for? What does it mean? Ain't going to get married or nothing, are you, man? Because I'll be obliged to go to town and get my best coat out of pawn if you are. Aw, now that's great. Drawed another voice in an English accent. Got anything good to drink, trot it out, and will be better able to appreciate all this luxury.

End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of the Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill This Liprovox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters Chapter 3 And what are you going to say to her? The young man felt a rising tendency to swear He'd forgotten all about the fellows and their agreement to meet and spend a festive day out.

So great was the spell on him that he forgot to put the feminine things away from curious eyes. There he stood foolishly in the middle of his own floor, with a bunch of weeds in his hand, which he hadn't the sense to drop. Far off, the sound of a cracked church bell gave a soft reminder, which the distant popping of firecrackers at a cabin down the road confirmed that this was Christmas Day. Christmas Day, and the face of the Christ looking down at him tenderly from his own wall. The oath that rose to his lips at his foolish plight was stayed. He couldn't take that name in vain with those eyes upon him. The spell wasn't broken even yet. With a quick settling of his lips and daring in his eyes, he threw back his head and walked

over to the glass face to fill it with water. It was like him to brave it out and tell the whole story now that he was caught. He was a broad-shouldered young man, firmly built with a head well set on his shoulders. Except for a certain careless slouch in his gate, he might have been fine to look upon. His face wasn't handsome, but he had good brown eyes with deep hazel lights in them that kindled when he looked at you. His hair was red, deep and rich, and decidedly curly. His gestures were strong and regular. If his face didn't have a certain hardness about it, he would have been interesting, but that look made one turn away disappointed. His companions were both big men like him. The Englishman was loose-jointed and awkward, with pale blue eyes,

hay-colored hair, and a large jaw with loose lips. He belonged to that large class of second or third sons, with a good education, a poor fortune, and very little practical knowledge how to better it, so many of whom came to Florida to try growing oranges. The other was handsome and dark, with a weak mouth and daring black eyes that continually wore with one another. Both were dressed in rough clothes, trousers tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts and soft riding hats. The Englishman wore gloves and affected a certain loud style in dress. They carried their riding whips and walked undismayed upon the bright colors of the rug. Oh, I say now, get off there with those great clods of boots, can't you?

exclaimed Christy with sudden housewifely carefulness. Anybody think you were brought up in a barn Armstrong. Armstrong put on his eyeglasses. He always wore them as if they were a monocle, and examined the rug carefully. Oh, I beg pardon. Awfully nice, ain't it. Sorry I didn't bring my patent leathers along. Remind me next time, please, Mortimer.

Christy told the story of his Christmas gifts in as few words as possible. Somehow he didn't feel like elaborating it. The guest seized upon the photograph of the girls and laughed hilariously over it. Takes you for a girl, does she? said Mortimer. That's great. Which one is she? I choose that fine one. with snapping black eyes and handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she wouldn't have laughed when her picture was taken.

Victoria Landis's eyes would have snapped indeed if she'd heard the comments about her and the others, but she was safely out of hearing far up in the north. The comments continued most freely. Christy found himself disgusted with his friends. Only yesterday he would have laughed at all they said. What made the difference now? Was it that letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if he read it?

to them. But he never would. The red blood stole up in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter now over the tender girlish phrases. It shouldn't be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he'd put it in his coat pocket the night before. The letter, the pictures, and the things seemed to have a sacredness about them, and it went against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of his friends. At last they spoke about the girl in the center of the group. The clear-eyed, firm-mouthed one he'd selected for Hazel. His blood boiled. He could stand it no longer. With one sweep of his long, strong arm, he struck the picture from them with, aw, shut up, you make me tired, and picking it up tucked it in his pocket. At this point, his companion's fun took a new turn. They examined the table

decked out in blue and lace. The man named Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs for woman's attire, and they turned upon their most unwilling host and decked him in fine array. He sat helpless and mad, with a large lace collar over his shoulders. Another hung down in front arranged over the bureau cover, which was spread across him as a background, while a couple of lace-bordered handkerchiefs adorned his head. "'And what are you going to say to her for all these pretty presents, Christy, my girl?' laughed Mortimer. "'Say to her,' gasped Christy. It hadn't occurred to him before that he would need to say anything.

A horrible oppression was settling down upon his chest. He wished that all the things were back in their boxes and on their way to their ridiculous owners. He got up, kicked at the rug, and tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the lavender slippers which his tormentors had stuck on the toes of his big shoes. Why, certainly, man, I beg your pardon, my dear girl, continued Mortimer. You don't intend to be so rude as not to reply, or say, I thank you very kindly. Christy's thick auburn brows settled into a scowl, and the attention of the others was drawn to the side of the room where the organ stood. That's awfully fine, don't you know, remarked Armstrong, leveling his eyeglasses at the picture.

It spies somebody great, I don't just remember who. Fine frame, said Mortimer Tersely, as he opened the organ and sat down in front of it. And the new owner of the picture felt for the first time his acquaintance with those two men. that they were somehow out of harmony with him. He glanced up at the picture with a color mounting in his face, half-pained for the friendly gaze that was treated so lightly. He didn't in the least understand himself. But the fingers touching the keys now were not altogether unaccustomed.

A soft, sweet strain broke through the room and swelled louder and fuller until it seemed to fill the little log house and bewapted through the open windows to the world outside. Christy stopped in his walk across the room, held by the music. It seemed to express all he had thought and felt during the last few hours. A few chords, and the player abruptly reached up to the pile of songbooks above him. Dashing the book open at random, he began playing, and in a moment in a rich sweet tenor sang. The others drew near and each took a book and joined in.

He holds the key of all an hour. and I am glad if other hand should hold the key or if he trusted it to me I might be sad The song was a new creed spoken to Christy's soul by a voice that seemed to fit the eyes in the picture What was the matter with him? He didn't at all know. whole life was suddenly shaken. It may be that the fact of his long residence alone in that desolate land, with only a few acquaintances, had made him more ready to be swayed by this sudden stirring of new thoughts and feelings. Certainly it was that Christy Bailey was not acting like

himself, but the others were interested in the singing. It had been a long time since they had an instrument to accompany them, and they enjoyed the sound of their own voices. They would have preferred, perhaps, a book of college songs, or better still, the latest street songs, but since they weren't at hand and gospel hymns were, they found pleasure even in these. On and on they sang, through hymn after him, their voices growing stronger as they found pieces that had some hints of familiarity. The music filled the house and floated out into the bright Christmas world outside. Presently, Christy felt rather than saw movement at the window, and looking up, beheld dark with little eager faces of the black children. Their supply of firecrackers had given out,

and, seeking further celebration, were drawn with delight by the unusual sounds. Christie dropped into a chair and gazed at them. His eyes growing troubled and the frown deepening, he couldn't make it out. He'd been here for some time, and these little children had never ventured to his premises. Now here they were in full force, their faces fairly shining with delight. their eyes rolling with wonder and joy over the music. It seemed like a fulfillment of the prophecy of the letter that came with the organ. He trembled at the possibilities that might be required of him, with his newly acquired and unsought-for property.

And yet he couldn't help a feeling of pride that all these things were his and that a girl of such evident refinement and cultivation had taken the trouble to send them. To be sure she wouldn't have done it at all if she had any idea. who or what he was, but that didn't matter. She didn't know, and never would. He saw the children's curious eyes wander over the room and rest here and they are delighted, and his own eyes followed theirs, how altogether nice it was, what a desolate hole it was before. Why hadn't he noticed? Amid all these thoughts the concert suddenly closed, the organist turned upon his stool

and addressing the audience in the window, remarked, with a good many flourishes. that finishes the program for today dear friends allow me to announce that a sunday school will be held in this place on next sunday afternoon at half-past two o'clock and you are all invited to be present do you understand half-past two and bring your friends now will you all come amid many a giggle and a bobbing of round black heads they answered as one boy and one girl yesa and went rollicking down the road to spread the news their bare feet flying through the sand and vanished as they had come. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters.

Chapter 4. The Letter That Wrote itself. What did you do that for? Thundered Christy, suddenly realizing what the outcome of this performance would be. Don't speak so loud, Christy, dear. It isn't ladylike, you know. I was merely saving you the trouble of announcing the services. You'll have a good attendance, I'm sure, and will come and help you out with the music, said Mortimer in a sweetly unconscious tone. Christy came at him with clenched fist, which he laughingly dodged and then went on bantering, but the two young men soon left, for Christy was angry and wasn't good company. They tried to coax him off to meet some of their other companions,

but he answered shortly no and they left him to himself left alone he was in no happy frame of mind he'd intended to go with them there'd be something good to eat and of course something to drink and cards and a jolly good time all around he could forget a little while his hard luck the slowness of the oranges and his own wasted life and feel some of the joy of living but he had the temper that went with his hair and now nothing would induce him to go. Could something else be holding him back to? A subtle something that he didn't understand, somehow connected with the letter and the picture and the organ. Well, if there was, he didn't stop to puzzle it out. Instead, he threw himself down on the newly covered couch, let his head sink down on one of those soft pillows and tried to think. He took out the letter and read it over again. When he read the sentences about praying for him, a choking sensation came in his throat, such as he hadn't felt since he nearly drowned, and realized he had no mother to go to anymore.

This girl wrote as a mother might talk, if one had a mother. He folded the letter and let it slip back in his pocket. Then closing and locking the door, he sat down at the organ and tried to play it. Since he knew nothing whatever about music, he didn't succeed very well. He turned from it with a sigh to look up at those pictured eyes once more and find them following his every movement. Some pictures have that power of seeming to follow one around the room. Christy got up and walked away, still looking at the picture, and turned and came back again. The eyes still seemed to remain upon his face with that strong, compelling gaze.

He wondered what it meant, and yet he was glad it had come. It seemed like a new friend. Finally he sat down and faced the question that was troubling him. He must write a letter to that girl, to those girls, and he might as well have done with it at once and get it out of the way. After that he could feel he had paid the required amount and could enjoy his things. It simply wasn't decent not to acknowledge their receipt. But the tug-of-war was how to do it.

Should he confess that he was a young man and not the Christie they thought, and offer to send back the things for them to confer upon a more worthy subject. He glanced around on his new belongings with sudden dismay. Could he give up all this? No, he would not. His eyes caught the pictured eyes once more. He'd found a friend and a little comfort. It had come to him unbidden.

He would not bid it depart. Besides, it would only make those kind people uncomfortable. They would think they'd done something dreadful to send a young man presence, especially one they'd never seen. He knew the ways of the world a little, and that Hazel Winship who wrote the letter, she was a charming person. He wouldn't like to spoil her dream

of his being a friendless girl. Let her keep her ideas. They could do no harm. He would write and thank her as if he were the girl they supposed him. He was always good at playing a part or imitating anyone. He'd write the letter in a girlish hand.

It wouldn't be hard to do and thank them as they accept. expected to be thanked by another girl. That would be the end of it. Then when his oranges came into bearing, if they ever did, he would send them each a box of oranges anonymously, and all would be right. As for that miserable business Mortimer got him into, he'd fix that up by shutting up the house and riding away early Sunday morning. The children might come to Sunday school to their hearts content. He wouldn't be there to be bothered or bantered. In something like a good humor, he settled to his task. He wrote one or two formal notes and tore them up. As he looked around

on the glories of his room, he began to feel that such thanks were inadequate to express his feelings. Then he settled to work once more and began to be interested. My dear unknown friend, he wrote, I scarcely know how to thank you for the kindness you have showered upon me. He read the sentence over and decided it sounded right and not at all as if a man had wrote it. The spirit of fun took possession of him, and he made up his mind to write those girls a good long letter and tell them all about his life. Only tell it just as if he were a girl. It would while away this long, unoccupied day. He wrote on, You wanted to know all about me, so I'm going to tell you. I don't, as you suppose teach school.

I had a little money from the sale of Father's farm after he died, and I put it into some land down. here planted with young orange trees. I'd heard a great deal about how much money was to be made in orange growing and thought I would like to try it. I'm alone in the world, not a soul who cares in the least about me, and so there was no one to advise me against it. I came down here and boarded at first, but found it would be a good thing for me to live among my trees so I could look after things better. So I had a little cabin built of logs right in the grove and sent for all the old furniture that was saved from the old home, which wasn't much, as most things were sold with the house. You saw how few and poor they were. It seems so strange to think that you, who evidently

have all the good things of the world to make you happy, should have stopped to think and take notice of poor and significant me. It is wonderful, more wonderful than anything that ever happened to me in all my life. I looked about on my beautified room and can't believe it is I. I live all alone in my log cabin, surrounded by a lot of young trees, which seemed to me very slow in doing anything to make me rich. If I'd known all I know now, I never would have come here, but one has to learn by experience, and I'll just have to stick now until something comes of it. I'm not exactly a girl just like as you say, for I'm 28 years old, and judging by your

pictures, not one of you is as old as that. You're none of you over 22 if you're the same. that. Besides, you're all beautiful girls, while I most certainly am not. To begin with, my hair is red, and I'm brown and freckled from the sun and wind and rain. In fact, I'm what is called homely. So you see, it isn't a serious a matter for me to live all alone down here in an orange grove, as it would be for one of you. I have a strong pony who carries me on his back, or in my old buckboard around the grove. I hire to have done, of course. I also, I always have have a few chickens and a dog. If you could have seen my little house the night your

boxes arrived and were unpacked, you'd appreciate the difference the things you sent make in my surroundings, but you can never know what a difference they will make in my life. Here the rapid pin halted, and the writer wondered whether that might be a prophecy. So far he reflected, he had written nothing that wasn't strictly true, and yet he hadn't revealed his identity. This last sentence seemed to be writing itself, for he had no idea that the change in his room would make much difference in his life, except to add a little comfort. He raised his eyes. As they met those in the picture, it seemed to be impressed upon him that there was to be a difference,

and somehow he wasn't sorry. The old life wasn't attractive, but he wondered what it would become. He felt as if he were standing off watching the developments in his own life, as one might be might watch the life of the hero in a story. There was one more theme in Hazel Winshib's letter that he didn't touch upon he found, after he went over each article by name and said nice things about them all, and what a lot of comfort he would have from them. He was especially pleased with his sentence about the slippers and lace collars. They are much too fine and pretty to be worn, especially by such a large, awkward person as I am. But I think they would look nice on some of the girls who sent them to me. But all the time he was reading his letter over, he felt that

something would have to be said on that other subject. At last he started it again. There's a cabin down the road a little way, and this morning a friend of mine came in and played a while on the organ. I can't play myself, but I'm going to learn. He hadn't thought about learning before, but now he knew he should. And we all got to singing out of the books you sent. Eventually I looked up and saw the doorway full of little children listening for all they were worth. I presume I can give a good deal of pleasure listening to that organ sometimes, though I'm afraid I wouldn't be much of a hand at starting a Sunday school. That sentence sounded rather mannish for a girl of 28,

but he had to let it stand, as he could think of nothing better to say. As I never knew much about such things, though I'm obliged for your praying, I'm sure, it will give me a pleasant feeling at night when I'm alone to know someone in the world is thinking about me. And I'm sure if prayers can do any good, yours ought to, but about the Sunday school, I don't want to disappoint you after you've been so kind to send all the papers and books. Maybe I could give the children some of the papers and let them study the lessons out for themselves. I used to be quite a hand at drawing.

I might practice up and draw them some pictures to amuse them sometime, they come around again. I'll do my best. I'd like to think of you all at college having a good time. My school days were the best of my life. I wish I could live them again. I have a lot of books, but when I come in tired at night, it seems so lonely here, and I'm so tired I just go to sleep. It doesn't seem to make much difference about my reading anymore anyway. The oranges won't know it. They'd grow just as soon for me as if I kept up with the procession. I appreciate your kindness, though I don't know how to tell you how deeply it touched me. I've picked out the one in the middle, the girl with the laughing eyes and the loveliest expression

I ever saw on any face, to be Miss Hazel Winship, the one who thought of this whole beautiful plan, am I right? I'll study the others up later. Yours very truly. Here he paused and carefully erasing the last word, wrote, Lovingly, Christy W. Bailey. He said, he said, sat back and covered his face with his hands. A strange warm feeling came over him while he was writing those things about Hazel Winship. He wondered what it was. He actually enjoyed saying those things to her and knowing she'd be pleased to read them and not think him impertinent. He wrote a good many promises after all. What led him to that? Did he mean to keep them? Yes, he believed he did. Only those fellows, Armstrong and Mortimer, shouldn't know anything about

it. He would carry out his plan of going away Sundays until those ridiculous fellows forgot their nonsense, and so thinking he folded and addressed his letter. A little more than a week later, six girls gathered in a cozy college room, Hazel's, to hear the letter read. You see, said Hazel, with a triumphant light in her eyes. I was right. She's a girl like us. It doesn't matter in the least bit that she's 28. That isn't old. And for once I'm glad you see that my impulses are not always crazy. I'm going to send this letter home at once to father and mother. They really were quite troublesome about this. They thought it was the wildest thing I ever did, and I've been hearing about it all vacation. Now listen. And Hazel read the letter amid many interruptions.

I'll tell you what it is, girls, she said, as she finished the letter. We must keep track of her now we've found her. I'm so glad we did it. She isn't a Christian that's evident. And we must try to help her and work through her a Sunday school. That would be worthwhile. Then maybe some time we can have her up here for a winter and give her a change. Wouldn't she enjoy it? It can't be this winter because we'll have to work so hard here in college. We'd have no time for anything else. But after we've all graduated, wouldn't it be nice? I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like of taking Christy Bailey to Europe. I know she'd enjoy it. Just think of what fun it would be to watch her eyes shine over new things. I don't mind her red hair one bit. Red-haired people are

lovely if they know how to dress to harmonize with their complexions. How fortunate we used green for that couch cover, Christy's hair will be lovely against it, murmured Victoria in a serio-comic tone, while all the girls set up a shout at Hazel's wild flights of imagination. Take Christy Bailey to Europe. I'm afraid you'll be simply dreadful. Now that you've succeeded in one wild scheme, you'll make us do all sorts of things and never stop at reason.

Hazel's cheeks flushed. It always hurt her a little that these girls didn't go quite as far in her philanthropic ideas as she did. She'd taken this Christy girl into her heart, and she wanted them all to do the same. Well, girls, you must all write to her anyway and encourage her. Think what it would be like to be down there, a girl all alone and raising oranges. I think she's a hero.

Oh, we'll write, of course, said Victoria, with mischief in her eyes. But call her a heroine, Dew Hazel. And they all wrote, letters full of nonsense and sweet, tender, chatty letters, and letters full of girlish pity, attempts to make life more bearable to the poor girl all alone down in Florida, but a girl who confesses to being homely and red-haired and 28 cannot hold for long a prominent place in the life of any but an enthusiast such as Hazel. Very soon the other five letters dropped off, and Christy Bailey was favored with only one correspondent from that Northern College. But to return to Florida, that first Sunday morning after Christmas, everything

didn't go just as Christy planned. In the first place he overslept. He had discovered some miserable scales on some of his most cherished trees. He had trudged to town Saturday morning. A worker was using the pony plowing and get some whale oil soap and then spend the rest of the day until dark spraying his trees. It was no wonder he was too tired to wake up early the next day. Then, when he finally went out to the pony, he discovered that he was suffering from a badly cut foot,

probably the result of the careless hired man and a barbed wire fence. The swollen foot needed attention. Once the pony was made comfortable, he reflected on what he would do next. To ride on that pony anywhere was impossible. To walk he wasn't inclined. The sun was warm for that time of year, and he still felt stiff from his exertions the day before. He concluded he would shut up the house, lie down and keep still when anyone came to call, and they would think him gone.

With this purpose in view, he gave the pony and the chickens a liberal supply of food, so he needed come out again until evening and went into the house. But he had no sooner reached there when he heard a loud knocking at the front door, evidently the butt end of a whip. Before he could decide what to do, it was thrown open, and Mortimer and Armstrong entered, with another young Englishman following close behind. Armstrong wore shiny patent leather shoes and seemed anxious to make them apparent.

Good morning, Miss Bailey, he said affably. Glad to see you looking so fresh and sweet. We just called round to help you prepare for your little Sunday school. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of The Story of a Wem by Grace Livingston Hill. This Liprovach's recording is in the public domain. recording by Like Many Waters Chapter 5

A Sunday School in spite of itself Christy was angry He stood still looking from one to another of his three guests like a wild animal at bay They knew he was angry And that fact contributed not a little to their enjoyment They meant to carry out the joke to the end The third man, Rushforth by name,

stood grinning behind the other two The joke was so thoroughly explained to him that he fully appreciated it. He was noted for being quick at a joke. Armstrong, however, seemed to have a complete sense of the ridiculous. Firmly and cheerfully they had their way. Christie, knowing resistance was futile, sat down on his couch in glum silence and let them do as they wished. I stopped on the way over and reminded our friends in the cabin below

that the hour was 2.30, remarked Mortimer. He pulled a large dinner bell from his side pocket and rang a note or two. That's to let them know when we're ready to start. Christy scowled and the others laughed uproariously. Now Armstrong, you and I will go out and reconnoiter for seeds, while Rushforth stays here and helps this dear girl dust her parlor ornaments and brickbats. We'll need plenty of seats, for we'll have quite a congregation if everyone I've asked turns out. They came back in a few minutes laden with boxes and boards, which they arranged in three rows

across the end of the cabin facing the organ. Christy sat and glared at them. He was very angry and was trying to think whether to bear it out and see what they would do next or run away to the woods. He had little doubt that if he attempted the latter, they would all three follow him, and perhaps find him to a seat to witness the performances they'd planned. They were evidently taking it out on him for having all this luxury and not taking them into the innermost confidences of his heart about it. He clenched his teeth and wondered what Hazel would say if she knew how outrageously her idea of a Sunday school was going to be burlesked.

Armstrong tacked up the chalkboard and got out the chalk. Then, discovering the folded cloth map of the Holy Land, he tacked that up at the end wall where all could see it. Mortimer mapped out the program. Now Rushford. You pass the books and the lesson leaflets, and I'll stay at the organ and preside. Miss Christie's a little shy about speaking today, you see, and we'll have to help her along before we put her in the superintendent's place. Christy, you can make some pictures on the chalkboard. Anything will do. This is near Christmas. You can make Santa Claus coming down the chimney if you like. I'll run the music, and we'll have quite a time of it. We can tell the fellows all about it down at the lake next week, and I wouldn't be surprised if we had a

delegation from Mulberry Creek next Sunday to hear Elder Bailey speak. I beg pardon, I mean Miss Bailey. You must excuse me, dear. On account of your freckles, I sometimes take you for a man. Mortimer spread open a Bible that came with the songbooks and actually found the place in the lesson leaflet. He made them listen while he read and declared that Christy ought to give a talk on the lesson. Thus they carried on their banter the whole morning long. Christy sat glowering in the corner. He couldn't make up his mind what to do. For some strange reason, he didn't want a Sunday school caricatured in his house, especially with that picture looking down upon it all.

And yet he didn't know why he didn't want it. He was never squeamish before about such things. The fellows wouldn't understand it, and he didn't understand it himself, but it went against the grain. Now as lunchtime approached, he thought they might go if he offered no refreshments, But no, they had no such idea. Instead, they sent Armstrong outside to the light wagon they'd tied at the tree by the roadside,

and he came back laden with a large basket, which they unpacked. The basket contained canned meats and jellies and pickles and baked beans and all sorts of canned goods that had to be substituted for the genuine article in Florida, where fresh meats and vegetables were not always to be had. Armstrong went out again, and this time came back. with a large case of bottles. He set it down with a thump on the floor just opposite the picture while he shut the door. The clink of bottles signified a hilarious hour and carried memories of many times of feasting in which Christy had participated before. His face crimsoned as if some

honored friend had been brought to look upon the worst of his hard, careless life. He suddenly rose with determination. Here was something he couldn't stand. He drank sometimes its true, the fellows knew it, but both he and they knew that the worst things they ever did in their lives were done and said under the influence of liquor. They all had memories of wild debauches of several days' duration. When they had gone off together and not restrained themselves, each one knew his own heart's shame after such a spree as this. Each knew the other's shame. They never spoke about it, but it was one of the bonds that tied them together, these drunken riots of theirs, when they put their senses at the service of cards and wine, and never stopped

until the liquor gave out. At such times each knew he would have sold his soul for one more penny to stake at the game, or one more drink, had the devil been around in human form to bid for it. Not one of them was a drunkard, and few even constant drinkers, partly because they had little money to spend in such a habit. They all had strong bodies able to endure much, and their life out of doors didn't create unnatural cravings of appetite. Rather they forced themselves into these reveries to amuse themselves in a land where there was little but work to fill up the long months and years of waiting. This case of liquor was not the first in Christy's cabin. He'd never felt before that it was out of place in entering there, but now the picture hung there and the case

of liquor representing the denial of God seemed to Christy a direct insult to the one whose presence had in a mysterious way, crept into the cabin with the picture. Also, he saw in a flash what the fellows planned. They knew his weakness. They remembered how skilled his tongue was in turning phrases when loosened by intoxicants. They planned to get him drunk. Perhaps they had even drugged some of the bottles slightly, and then to make him talk or even pray. At another time this might have seemed funny to him. He hadn't realized before how far he'd gone in the way from truth and righteousness. But now his whole soul rose up to loathe him, his ways, and his companions. A sentence of his mother's prayer for him when he was a little child that hadn't been in his mind for years now,

came as clear as if a voice had spoken in his ear. God, make my little Chris a good man. And this was how it was answered. Poor mother! What Hazel Winship would think of the scene also flashed into his mind. He strode across that room in his angry strength before his assesal. astonished companions could stop him. Taking that case of liquor in his muscular arms,

he hurled it far out the open door across the road and into the woods. Then he turned back to the three amazed men. You won't have any of that stuff in here, he said firmly. If you're bound to have a Sunday school, a Sunday school will have, but we won't have any drunken men at it. Perhaps you enjoy mixing things up that way, but I'm not quite a devil yet. They hadn't known he possessed such strength. He looked fairly splendid as he stood there in the might of right,

his deep eyes glowing darker brown, and every bright curl trembling with determination. Oh, certainly beg pardon, said Armstrong, settling his eyeglasses that he might observe his former friend more closely. I mean no harm, I'm sure. Armstrong was always polite. If an earthquake had thrown him to the ground, he would have risen and said,

"'Ah, I beg pardon.' But Christie was master in his own house. The others exclaimed a little and tried to joke with him about his newly acquired temperance principles, but he refused to open his lips further on the subject, and they ate their canned meats and jellies and bread, moistened only by water from Christie's pump in the yard. They had scarcely finished when the first installment of the Sunday school arrived in faded but freshly starched calicoes, laundered especially for the occasion. They pattered to the door barefooted, clean and shining.

Some of their elders followed, lingering shy and smiling at the gateway, uncertain whether to acknowledge the invitation to Mr. Christie's cabin. Mr. Christie had never been so hospitable before, but the children, spying the rudely improvised benches, crept in, and the others followed. Christy stood scowling in the back end of the cabin. Sunday school was on his hands. He couldn't help it anymore than he could help the car. coming of the organ and the picture. It was part of his new possessions. He felt determined that it

shouldn't be a farce. How he would prevent it he didn't know, but he meant to do it. He looked up at the picture again. It seemed to give him strength. Of course, it was only his imagination that it smiled approval after he flung that liquor out the door, but in spite of his own reason, he felt that the man of the picture was enduring insult here in his house, and that he must fight for his sake. Added to that was Hazel Winship's faith in him and her desire for a Sunday school. His honor was at stake. He would never have gone out and gathered up a Sunday school to nurse to life, even for Hazel Winship. Neither would he have consented to help in one if his permission had been asked. But now, when it was, as it were, thrust upon him, like a little foundling child,

all smiling and innocent of possible danger to it, what could he do but help it out? They were all seated now and a hush of expectancy pervaded the room. The three conspirators over by the organ were consulting and laughing in low tones. Christy knew that the time had come for action. He raised his eyes to the picture once more. To his imagination, the eyes seemed to smile assurance to him, as he went forward to the organ. Christy quietly picked up a songbook and, opening at random, said, Let's sing number one thirty-four. When they began to sing, he was a song-book, he was a little bit of was surprised to find it was the same song Mortimer had sung first on Christmas morning. His friends turned an astonishment toward him. They began to think he was entering into the joke

like his old self, but instead on his face was a serious look they'd never seen there before. Mortimer put his fingers on the keys and began at once. Christy had taken the play out of their hands and turned the tables on them. They wondered what he'd do next. This was fine acting on his part, they felt, for him to take the predicament they put him in and work it out in earnest. The song was almost finished, and still Christy didn't know what to do next. He announced another hymn at random and watched Old Aunt Tildy settle her steel-bold spectacles over her nose and fumble among the numbers. The Sunday school was entering into the music with zest.

The male trio who led was singing with might and main, but with an amused smile on their faces, as if they expected development soon. Just then an aged black man came hobbling in. His hair and whiskers were white, and his worn Prince Albert coat didn't fit his bent figure, but there was a clerical manner that clung to the old coat and gave Christy hope. When the song was finished, he raised his eyes without any hesitation and spoke clearly. Uncle Moses, he said, We want to begin right, and you know all about Sunday schools.

Can't you give us a start? Uncle Moses slowly took off his spectacles and put them carefully away in his pocket while he cleared his throat. I ain't much on speech if I in Mr. Bailey, he said. But I can pray, because you see when I was talking to God, then I ain't thinking of my own sinful stumbling speech. The choir didn't attempt to restrain their chuckles, but Christy was all seriousness. That's it, Uncle, that's what we need. You pray. He wondered for an instant,

Heather Hazel Winship was praying for her Sunday school then too. All during the prayer Christy marveled at himself, he conducting a religious service in his own house and asking somebody to pray. And yet, as the trembling sentences rolled out, he felt glad that homage was being rendered to the presence that seemed to have been in the room ever since the picture came. Oh, our father in heaven, we is all po-sinnas, said Uncle Moses earnestly, and Christy felt it was true, himself among the number.

It was the first prayer the young man ever remembered feeling all the way through. We is all sick and miserable with the disease of sin. We's got it bad, Lord. Here Christy felt the seat behind him shake. Mortimer was behaving very badly. But, Lord, went on the quavering old voice. We know there's a remedy. A way down in Palestine, in the Holy Land,

was where the first medicine shop of the world was set up, and we've been getting the good of it ever since. O Lord, we praise thee today for the little child that lay in that manger a long time ago, that brung the first chance of healing to us po-sinnas. Mortimer could scarcely contain himself, and the two Englishmen were laughing on general principles. Christy raised his bowed head and gave Mortimer a warning shove,

and they subsided somewhat, but the remarkable prayer went on to its close. And to Christy it seemed to speak a new gospel, familiar, and yet never comprehended before. Could it be that these poor, uneducated people were to teach him a new way? By the time the prayer was over he lost his trepidation. The spirit of it put a determination into him to make this gathering a success, not merely for the sake of foiling his tormentors, but for the sake of the trusting children who had come there in good faith.

He felt an exultant thrill as he thought of Hazel Wendt, and her commission. He would try to do his best for her sake today, at least, whatever came of it in future. Neither should those idiots behind him have a grand tale of his breaking down an embarrassment to take to the fellows over at the lake. Summoning all his daring, he called out another hymn, which happened fortunately to be familiar to the audience, and to have many verses, and he reached for a lesson leaflet. Oh, if his curiosity had only led him to examine the lesson for today, or any lesson, in fact. He must say something to carry things off,

and he must have a moment to consider. The words swam before his eyes. He could make nothing out of it all. Did he dare ask one of the fellows to read the scripture lesson while he prepared for his next line of action? He looked at them. They were an uncertain quantity, but he must have time to think a minute.

Armstrong was the safest. His politeness would hold him within bounds. When the song finished, He handed the leaflet to Armstrong, saying briefly, You read the verses Armstrong. Armstrong in surprise answered. Oh, certainly. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he began.

Now, when Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Hallelujah, interjected Moses, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He was so happy to be in a meeting again. Oh, I beg pardon, sir, what did you say? Said Armstrong, looking up innocently. This came near to breaking up the meeting, at least one portion of it, but Christy, with a gleam of determination in his eyes because he'd caught a thread of a thought, said gruffly,

Go on Armstrong, don't mind Uncle Moses. When the reading was over, Christy, annoyed by the actions of his supposed helpers, seized a riding-whip from the corner of the room and came forward to where the map of Palestine hung. He passed his three friends. He gave them such a glare that they instinctively, crouched away from the whip, wondering whether he was going to inflict instant punishment upon them. But Christy was only bent on teaching the lesson. This is a map, he said.

How many of you have ever seen a map of Florida? Several children raised their hands. Well, this isn't a map of Florida. It's a map of Palestine. That place Uncle Moses spoke about when he prayed. And Bethlehem is on it somewhere. See if you can find it anywhere. because that's the place told about in the verses that we just read.

Rushforth suddenly roused to help. He recognized Bethlehem, and at the risk of a cut with a whip from the angry Sunday school superintendent, he stepped forward and put his finger on Bethlehem. Christy's face cleared. He felt that the waters were not quite so deep after all. With Bethlehem in sight and Aunt Tildy putting on her spectacles, he felt he had his audience. He turned to the chalkboard.

now he said picking up a piece of yellow chalk i'm going to draw a star that was one of the first christmas things that happened about that time while i'm drawing it i want you to think of some of the other things the lesson tells about and if i can i'll draw them the little heads bobbed eagerly this side and that to see the wonder of a star appear on the smooth surface with those few quick strokes i reckon you'd better put up a rainbow above de sta for a promise put in old uncle mosephes causes. Cause de scripture say somewhere, where's de promise of his coming, and a rainbow is his promise in the heavens. All right, said Christy, breathing more freely, though he didn't quite see the connection, and soon a rainbow arch glowed at the top over the star. Then desire grew to see this and that thing drawn, and the scholars, interested beyond their leader's wildest expectations, called out, Major, wise men, king. Christy stopped at nothing from a sheep to an angel.

He made some attempt to draw everything they asked for, and his audience didn't laugh. They were hushed into silence. Part of them were held enthrall by overwhelming admiration for his genius, and the other part by sheer astonishment. The young men, his companions, looked at Christy with a new respect. They gazed from him to a shakily drawn cow, which was intended. to represent the oxen that usually fed from the Bethlehem manger and wondered. A new Christy Bailey was before them, and they didn't know what to make of him. For Christy was getting interested

in his work. The board was almost full, and the perspiration stood out on his brow and made little damp, dark rings of the curls around his forehead. There's room for one more thing. What shall it be, Uncle Moses? He said as he paused. His face was eager and his voice was interested. But a right across down, saw, cause that's the reason for dat babies comin' into this world. He came to die to save us all. Amen, said Aunt Tildy, wiping her eyes and settling her spectacles for the last picture. Christy turned with relief back to his almost finished task. A cross was an easy thing to make.

He built it of stone, massive and strong, and as its arm grew, stretched out to save, something of its grandeur and purpose entered his mind and stayed. Now let's sing, Rock of Ages, said Uncle Moses, closing his eyes in a happy smile. The choir hastily found it and began. As the Sunday School rose to depart and shuffled out with many a scrape and bow and admiring glance backward at the glowing chalkboard, Christy felt a hand touch his arm. Glancing down, he saw a small girl, with great dark eyes set in black fringes,

gazing up at the picture above the organ, her little hand on his sleeve. Is that man you all's father? She asked him timidly. A great wave of color stole up into Christy's face. No, he answered. That is a picture of Jesus when he grew up to be a man. Oh, guess the little girl in admiration. Did you draw that? Did you all ever see Jesus? The color deepened. No, I didn't draw that picture, said Christy. It was sent as a present to me. Oh, said the child disappointed. I thought you'd maybe see him sometime, but he look like you, he do.

I thought he was you all's father. The little girl turned away, but her words lingered in Christy's heart. His father. How that stirred some memory. His father in heaven. Had he perhaps spoken wrong when he claimed no relationship with Jesus, the Christ? End of chapter 5. Chapter 6 of the Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill.

This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters Chapter 6 My Father The three young men who came to play a practical joke stayed to clear up. Gravely and courteously they went about the work, piled the hymn books neatly on top of the organ,

and placed the boards and boxes under the house for further youths. if needed. The entire Sunday school had declared, upon leaving the house with a bow and a smile, I'll come again next Sunday, Mr. Christie, I'll come every Sunday. And Christy hadn't told them not to. The young men bid good evening to their host, not once calling him Miss Christy, voted the afternoon a genuine success, and were actually gone. Christy sank to the couch and looked into the eyes looking down upon him. He was tired. Oh, he was more tired than he'd ever been in his life. He was so tired he'd like to cry, and the pictured eyes seemed yearning to comfort him. He thought of the words of the little black girl. Is dat man you all's father?

My father, he said aloud. My father. The words echoed with a pleasant ring in the silent, lonely room. He didn't know why he said it, but he repeated it again. And if the traditions of his childhood had been filled with the Bible, a host of verses would have flocked around him. But since his mind hadn't been filled with holy things, he had to learn it all. And his ideas of the man, Christ Jesus, were vague and crude. Perhaps, as to the children of old, God was speaking directly to his heart. Christy lay still and thought, went over his useless life and hated it. And it, went over the past week with its surprises, and then over the strange afternoon. His own conduct surprised him most of all. Now why, just why, did he throw that case of liquor

out the door, and why did he go ahead with that Sunday school? A mysterious power was at work within him. Was the secret the presence of the man of the picture? The sun dropped over the rim of the flat low horizon and left the pines looming dark against a starry sky. all the earth went dark with night and christie lay there in the quiet darkness yet not alone he kept thinking over what the little girl had said to him and once again he said it out loud in the hush of the room My father. But as the darkness grew deeper, a luminous halo seemed to be up where he knew the picture hung, and while he rested there with closed eyes, he felt that presence growing brighter. Those kind eyes were looking down upon him out of the dark of the room. This time he called, My father, with recognition in his voice, and out from the shadows of his life, the Christ stepped nearer until he stood beside the

couch. Stooping, he blessed him, breathed his love upon him, while he looked up in wonder and joy. And perhaps because he was not familiar with the words of Christ, the young man couldn't recall in what form those precious words of blessing fell on his ear during the dream, or trance, or whatever it might be, that came upon him. When the morning broke around him, Christy, waking, sat up and remembered, and decided it must have been a dream, induced by the unusual. excitement of the day before. Yet a wondrous joy lingered with him for which he could not account. Again and again, he looked at the picture reverently and said under his breath, My father. He wondered whether he was growing daft. Perhaps his loneliness was enfeebling his mind,

so that he was susceptible to what he always considered superstition. Nevertheless, it gave him joy, and he finally decided to humor himself in this notion. This was the permissible. This was the of his old self toward the new self that was being born within him. He went about his work singing, He holds the key of all unknown, and I am glad. Well, I am glad. He announced out loud, as if someone had disputed the fact he just stated. About the safest person to hold the key after all, I guess, and even as a maiden might steal a glance to the eyes of her lover, so the soul in him glanced up to the eyes of the picture. The dog and the pony rejoiced as they heard their master's cheery whistle,

and Christy felt happier that day than he had since he was a little boy. Toward night he grew quieter. He was developing a scheme. It would be rather interesting to write out an account of the Sunday school, not of course the part the fellows had in it. For that mustn't be known, but just the pleasant part about Uncle Moses and Aunt Tildy, he would write it to Hazel Winship. Not that he'd ever send it, but it would be pleasant to pretend he was writing her another letter. He hadn't enjoyed anything for a long time, as much as he had enjoyed writing that letter to her the other day.

Perhaps after a long time, if she ever answered his letter. And here he suddenly realized he was cherishing a faint hope in his heart that she would answer it. He might revise this letter and send it to her. It would please her to know he was trying to do his best with a Sunday school for her, and she would likely appreciate some of the things that had happened. He would do it this very evening. He hurried through his day's work with zest. He had something to look forward to in the evening.

It was foolish, perhaps, but surely no more foolish than his amusements the last four years had been. It was innocent, at least, and could do no one any harm. Then, as he sat down to write, he glanced instinctively to the picture. It still wove its spell of the eyes around him, and he hadn't lost the feeling that Christ had come to him, though he'd never made the slightest attempt or desire to come to Christ. And under the new influence, he wrote his thoughts, as one might wing a prayer, scarcely believing it would ever reach a listening ear, yet taking comfort in the sending. And so he wrote,

My dear new friend, I didn't expect to write you again, at least not so soon. It seems impossible that one so blessed with this world's good things should have time to think twice of one like me. I don't even know whether I'll ever send this when it's written, but it will while away my lonely evening to write and give me the pleasure of a little talk with a companion I appreciate very much. And if I ever send it, that will be all right. It's about the Sunday School. You know I told you I could never do anything like that. I didn't know how. And I never dreamed that I could.

Or would, perhaps I ought to say, more than to give the children the papers you sent and let them hear the organ sometimes. But a very strange thing has happened. A Sunday school has come to me in spite of myself. The friend who was playing the organ this Christmas morning when the black children stood at the door listening as a joke invited them to a Sunday school.

And they came. I was vexed because I didn't know what to do with them. Then, too, the friend came, bringing to others, and they all thought it was a huge joke. I saw they were going to act out a farce. While I never had much conscience about these things before, I sensed that it wouldn't be what you would like. Then, too, that wonderful picture you sent disturbed me. I didn't like to laugh at religion with that picture looking on. You may perhaps wonder at me.

I don't understand myself. but that picture has had a strange effect on me. It helped me do a lot of things Sunday that I didn't want to do. It helped me take charge and do something to get that Sunday school to go right. I didn't know how in the least. Of course I've been to Sunday school. I didn't mean that, but I never took much notice of things and how they were done. And I wasn't one to do it anyway.

I felt unfit. And even more because my friends were here, and I knew they were making fun. I had them sing a lot. and then I asked old Uncle Moses to help us out. I wish I could show you Uncle Moses. Here the writer paused and seemed to debate a point for a moment, and then he wrote, I'll try to sketch him roughly.

There followed a spirited sketch of Uncle Moses, with both hands crossed on top of his heavy cane, his benign chin leaning forward with interest. One could fairly see how yellow with age were his whitened locks, how green with age his ancient coat, Christie had his talents, though there were few outlets for them. It is of interest to note here that, when this letter reached the Northern College, as it did one day, those six girls gathered together and laughed and cried over the pictures. Finally, after due counsel, Christy Bailey was offered a full course in a famous women's college of art.

This he smiled over and quietly declined, saying he was much too old to begin anything like that, which required that one should begin at childhood to accomplish anything by it. This the girl sighed over and argued over, but finally gave up, as they found Christy wouldn't. But to return to the letter, Christy gave a full account of the prayer, which had touched his own heart deeply, then he described and sketched Aunt Tildy with her spectacles. He had a secret longing to put in Armstrong with his glasses and the incident of his interruption with the Bible reading. But since that would reflect somewhat upon his character as an elderly maiden,

to be found consorting with three such young men, he restrained himself. But he put an extra vigor into the front row of little black heads, bobbing this way and that, singing with might and main. I knew they ought to have a lesson next, but I didn't know how to teach it, any better than I know how to make an orange tree bear in a hurry. I determined to do my best, however. I happened to remember something said in what was read about a star. So I made one, and I told them each to think of something they'd heard in that lesson that they wanted me to draw.

That worked first-rate. They tried nearly everything in the encyclopedia, and I did my best at each till the whole big chalkboard was full. I wish you could see it. It looks like a Noah's Ark hanging up there on the wall now, or I haven't cleaned it off yet. I keep it there to remind me that I really did teach a Sunday school class. once. When they went away, they all said they were coming again, and I don't doubt they'll do it. I'm sure I don't know what to do with them if they do, for I've drawn all there is to draw. As for teaching them anything, they can teach me more in a minute than I could teach them in a century.

Why, one little child looked up at me with her big, round, soft eyes, so wistful and pretty, and asked me if that picture on the wall was my father. I wish I knew more about that picture, I know it must be meant for Jesus Christ. I'm not quite so ignorant of all religion as not to see that. There is the halo with the shadow of the cross above his head. And when the sun has almost set, it touches there, and the halo seems to glow and glow, almost with phosphorescent light, until the sun is gone, and leaves us all in darkness.

Then I imagine I can see it still glow out between the three arms of the cross. And now I don't know why I'm writing this. I didn't mean to when I began, but I felt as if I must tell about the strange experience I had last night. And then Christy told his dream. Told it until someone reading could only feel as he felt. See the vision with him. Yarn for the blessing, and be glad and wonder always after. Tell me what it means, he wrote.

It seems as if there was something in this presence for me. I can't believe it's all imagination, for it would leave me when day comes. It has set me longing for something, but I don't know what. I never longed before, except for my oranges to bring me money. When I wanted something I couldn't have before this, I went and did something I knew I shouldn't, just for the pleasure of doing wrong, a sort of defiant pleasure. Now I feel as if I want to do right, to be good, like a little child coming to its father. I feel as if I want to ask you, as that little soul asked me yesterday. Is that man you all's father?

Christy folded his letter and flung it down on the table with his head upon his hands. With the writing of that experience his strength left him. He felt abashed in its presence. He seemed to have avowed something, to have made a declaration of desire and intention for which he was hardly ready yet, and still he didn't want to go back. He was like a man groping in the dark, not knowing where he was, or whether there was light,

or whether indeed he wanted the light if there was any to be had. But before he retired that night he dropped on his knees beside his couch, with bowed and reverent head. After waiting silently a while, he said out loud, My father, as if he were testing a call, he repeated it again more eagerly, and a third time, with a ring in his voice. My father. That was all.

he didn't know how to pray. His soul had grown no further than just to know how to call to his father, but it was enough. A kind of peace settled down on him, a feeling that he was heard. Once more he sensed that he was acting out of all reason, and he wondered whether he could be losing his mind. He, a red-haired, hard-featured orange grower, who only yesterday carried curses so easily upon his lips, and might again tomorrow to be allowing his emotions thus. to carry him away. It was simply childish. But so deep was the feeling that a friend was near

that he might really say, my father, if only to the dark, that he determined to keep up the hallucination, if indeed it was hallucination, as long as it would last. So he fell asleep again to the dream of benediction. The next day a sudden desire took him to mail that letter he wrote the night before. What harm since he would never see the girl, and since she thought him a poor forlorn creature, this letter might prove him half-daffed, but even so she might write him again, which he found he wanted very much when he thought about it. So without giving himself a chance to repent by rereading it, he drove the limping pony to town and mailed it. Now, as the middle of the week approached, a conviction seized Superintendent Christy Bailey that another Sunday was

about to dawn, and another time of trial would perhaps be his. He virtually bound himself to that Sunday school by the mailing of that foolish letter. He could have run away if not for that, and those girls up north would never have bothered their heads any more about their old Sunday school. What if Mortimer should bring the fellows over from the lake? What if? His blood froze in his veins. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of The Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill. This Livervox recording is in the public domain.

Recording by Like Many Waters. Chapter 7. I love you. After his supper that night, he dodgedly seized the lesson leaflet and began to study. He read the whole thing through. Hints and elucidations and illustrations and all. and then began again. At last it struck him that the hints for the infant class would about suit his needs, and without further ado, he set himself to master them. Before long he was as

interested as a child in his plans, and the next evening was spent in cutting out paper crosses, as suggested in the lesson, one for every scholar he expected to be present, and lettering them with the golden text. He spent another evening still in making an elaborate picture on the the reverse side of the chalkboard, to be used at the close of his lesson after he led up to it by more simple work on the other side. He went so far as to take the hymn book, select the hymns, and write out a regular program. No one should catch him napping this time. Neither should the prayer be forgotten. Uncle Moses would be there, and they could trust him to pray. Christy was a little anxious about his music, for upon that he depended principally for success.

He felt surprised over himself that he so much wished to succeed, when a week ago he hadn't cared. What would he do, though, if Mortimer didn't turn up, or worse still, if he'd planned more mischief? But the three friends appeared promptly on the hour, dignity on their faces, and helpfulness in the atmosphere that surrounded them. They had no more practical jokes to play. They had recognized that for some hidden reason, Christy meant to play this thing out in

earnest. And their liking and respect for him were such that they wanted to assist in the same spirit. They liked him nonetheless, for his prompt handling of the case of liquors. They carried a code of honor in that colony that respected moral courage when they saw it. Besides, everybody liked Christy. They listened closely to Christy's lesson, even with interest. They took their little prayer crosses, studied them curiously, and folded them away in their breast pockets. Armstrong had passed them around, being careful to reserve three for himself, Mortimer, and Rushforth, and they sang with a right good will. And when the time came to leave, they shook hands with Christy like the rest, and without the least mocking in their voices, said they had a pleasant

time and would come again. Then each man took a box and a board and stowed them away as he passed out of the room. And thus Christy was set up above the rest to a position of honor and respect. This work he had taken up, that they partly forced him to take up, separated him from them somewhat. Perhaps it was this fact that Christy had to thank afterward for his freedom from temptation during those first few weeks of his acquaintance with his heavenly father. For how could he have grown into the life of Christ if he had constantly met and drunk liquor with these companions? The new life could not have grown with the old. Christy's action that first Sunday afternoon made a difference between him and the rest.

They recognized it, admired it in him, and therefore lifted him up. What was there for Christy but to try to act his part? Before the end of another week, a package of books and papers and Sunday school cards and helps arrived from the north, such as would have delighted the heart of the most advanced Sunday school teacher of the day. What those girls could not think of, the head of the large religious bookstore they went to thought of for them, and Christy had food for thought and action during many long, lonely evenings. And always these evenings ended in his kneeling in the dark, where he

imagined the light of Christ's halo in the picture could send its glow upon him, and saying out loud in a clear voice, My father, outside in the night was heard only the wailings of the tall pines as they waved weird fingers dripping with gray moss, or the plaintive call of the titlark. With the package, a letter for Christy came to. He put it in his breast pocket with eager anticipation, and hustled that pony home at a most unmerciful trot. At least so thought the pony. When Hazel Winship read that second letter out loud to the other girls, she didn't read all of it. The pages containing the sketches she passed around freely, and they read and laughed over the Sunday school and talked enthusiastically of its future.

But the pages that told of the Sabbath evening vision and of Christy's feeling toward the picture, Hazel kept to herself. She felt instinctively that Christy would rather not have it shown. It seemed so sacred to her and so wonderful. Her heart went out to the other soul seeking its father. When they left her room that night, she locked the door and knelt a long time praying, praying for the soul of Christy Bailey. Something in the longing of that letter from the south reproached her that she, with all her enlightenment, was not appreciating to its full, the love and care of her heavenly father. And so Christy unknowingly helped Hazel winship nearer to her master. And then Hazel wrote the letter, in spite of a Greek thesis, the thesis, in fact, that was

waiting and calling to her with urgency, the letter that Christy carried home in his breast pocket. He didn't wait to eat his supper, though he gave the pony his. Indeed, it was a a very attractive function at its best. Christy was really handsome that night, with a lamplight bringing out all the copper tints and garnet shadows in his hair. His finely cut lips curved in a pleasant smile of anticipation. He didn't realize before how much he wanted to hear from Hazel Winship again. His heart was thumping as he tore open the delicately perfumed envelope and took out the many

closely written pages of the letter. And his heart rejoiced that it was long and close. closely written. He resolved to read it slowly and make it last a good while. My dear, dear Christy, it began. Your second letter has come, and first, I want to tell you that I love you. Christy gasped and dropped the sheets upon the table, his arms and face on them. His heart was throbbing painfully, and his breath felt like great sobs. When he raised his eyes eventually, as he was acquiring a habit of doing to the picture, they were full of tears. They fell and blurred the delicate writing of the pages on the table, and the Christ knew,

and pitied him, and seemed almost to smile. No one had ever told Christy Bailey of loving him, not since his mother those long years ago, held him to her breast, and whispered to God to make her little Chris a good man. He grew up without expecting love. He scarcely thought he knew the meaning of the word. He scorned it in the only sentence he'd ever heard it spoken of, and now, in all his loneliness, to have this free, sweet love of a pure-hearted girl, rushed upon him without stint and without cause, overpowered him. Of course he knew it wasn't his, this love she gave so freely and so frankly. It was meant for a person who never existed, a nice, homely old maid, whose throne in Hazel's imagination was located in his

his cabin for some strange wonderful reason. Yet it was his too, his to enjoy, for it certainly belonged to no one else. He was robbing no one else to let his hungry heart be filled a little while with the fullness of it. One resolve he made instantly without hesitation, and that was he would be worthy of such love, if so be it lay in him to be. He would cherish it as a tender flower that was meant for another, but fell instead into his rough keeping. And no thought or word or action of his should ever stain it. Then, with true knighthood in his heart to help him onward, he raised his head and read on, a great joy upon him that almost engulfed him. And I believe you love me a little too. Christy caught his breath again. He saw it was true, although he hadn't known it before.

Shall I tell you why I think so? Because you've written me this little piece out of your heart life, this story of your vision of Jesus Christ, for I believe it was such. I haven't read that part of your letter to the other girls. I couldn't. It seemed sacred, while I know they would have sympathized and understood. I felt perhaps you wrote it just to me, and I would keep it sacred for you. And so I'm sending you this letter just to speak of that to you. I'll write in my other letter with the rest of the girls about the Sunday school and how glad we are, and about the pictures and how fine they are, and you'll understand. But this letter is about your own self.

I've stopped most urgent work upon my thesis to write this too, so you may know how important I consider you, Christy. I couldn't sleep last night for praying about you. It was a wonderful revelation to Christy, the longing of another soul that his might be saved, to the lonely young fellow, accustomed to thinking that not another one in the world cared for him. It seemed almost unbelievable. He forgot for the time that she considered him another girl like her. He forgot everything except her pleading that he would give himself to Jesus.

She wrote of Jesus Christ as one would write of a much-loved friend, met often face-to-face, consulted about everything in life, and trusted beyond all others. A few weeks ago this would indeed have been wonderful to the young man, but that it could have any relation to him, impossible. Now, with the remembrance of his dream and the joy his heart had felt from the presence of a picture in his room, it seemed it might be true that Christ would love even him, and with so great a love. The pleading took hold upon him. Jesus was real to this one girl. He might become real to him. The thought of that girl is. The thought of that girl figure kneeling beside her bed in the solemn night hours praying for him was almost more than he could bear.

It filled him with awe and a great joy. He drew his breath and didn't try to keep the tears from flowing. It seemed that the fountains of the years were broken up in him, and he was weeping out his cry for the lonely, unloved childhood he had lost and the bitter years of mistakes that followed. It appeared that the Bible had a great part to play in this new life put before him. Versus he recognized from Scripture abounded in the letter. He didn't recall hearing them before, but they came to him with a rich sweetness as though spoken just for him. Did the Bible contain all that, and why hadn't he known it before?

He went to other books for respite from his loneliness. Why had he never known that there was deeper comfort than all else could give? Think of it, Christy, the letter read, Jesus Christ would have come to this earth and lived and died to save you if you were the only one out of the whole earth that was going to accept him. He turned his longing eyes to the picture. Was that true? And the eyes seemed to answer, yes, Christy, I would. Before he turned out his light that night, he took the Bible from the organ and opening at random read, for I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with loving kindness I have drawn thee. And a light of belief spread over his face.

He couldn't sleep for many hours for thinking of it all. There was no question in his mind of whether he would or not. He felt he was the Lord's in spite of everything else. The loving kindness that had drawn him was too great for any human resistance. Then with the realization of the loving kindness, came self-reproach for his so long denial and worse than indifference. He didn't understand the meaning of repentance and faith, but he was learning them in his life. Christy was never the same after that night. Something changed in him.

It may have been growing all those days since the things first came, but that letter from Hazel Winship marked a decided epic in his life. All his manhood rose to meet the sweetness of the girl's unasked prayer for him. It didn't matter that she didn't think of him as a man. She prayed, and the prayer reached up to heaven and back to him again. The only touch of sadness about it was that he could never see her and thank her face to face for the good she did for him. He thought of her as some faraway angel who stopped on earth for a little while, and in some of his reveries he dreamed that perhaps in heaven, where all things were made right, he should know her. For the present it was enough that he had her kind friendship and her companionship in writing.

Not for worlds now would he reveal his identity, and the thought that this might be wrong did not enter his mind. What harm could it possibly do, and what infinite good to him, and perhaps through him to a few of those little black children. He let this thought come timidly to the front. This was the beginning of the friendship that made life a new thing to Christy Bailey. He wrote long letters, telling the thoughts of his inmost heart, as he had never told them to anyone on earth, as he could never have told them to one he hoped to meet sometime, as he would have told them to God, and the college student found time amid her essays and her activities to answer them promptly. Her companions wondered why she wasted so much valuable time on that poor Cracker Girl, as they

sometimes spoke of Christy, and how she could have patience to write such long letters. But their curiosity didn't go so far as to wonder what she found to say. Otherwise, they might have noticed that Hazel offered less often to read out loud her letters from the South, but they were busy and only occasionally inquired about Christy now or sent a message. Hazel herself sometimes wondered why this stranger girl had taken so deep a hold upon her, but the days went by and the letters came frequently, and she never found herself willing to put one by unambor. answered. Some question always needed answering, some point on which her young convert to Jesus Christ

needed enlightenment. Then too she found herself growing nearer to Jesus because of this friendship, with one who was just learning to trust him in such a childlike and earnest way. Do you know, she confided to Ruth Summers one day. I can't make myself see Christy Bailey as homely. It doesn't seem possible to me. I think she's mistaken. I know I'll find something handsome about her when I see her, which I shall someday. And Ruth smiled mockingly, oh, Hazel, Hazel, it will be better than for you never to see poor Christy, I'm sure, for you'll surely find your ideal different from the reality. But Hazel's eyes grew dreamy, and she shook her head. No, Ruth, I'm sure, a girl couldn't have all the beautiful thoughts Christy has and not be fine in expression.

There'll be some beauty in her, I'm sure. Her eyes now, I know are magnificent. I wish she'd send me a picture, but she won't have one taken, though I've coaxed and coaxed. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill. This liverbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters. Chapter 8. Sad News from the North In his own heart life, Christy was changing day by day. The picture of Christ was his constant companion. At first shyly, and then openly, he made a confidant of it. He studied the lines of the face and fitted them to the lines of the life depicted in the New Testament, and without knowing it, his own face was changing.

The lines of recklessness and hardness around his mouth were gone. The dullness of discontent was gone from his eyes. They could light now from within in a flash with a joy that no discouragement could quench. By common consent, Christy's companions respected his new way of life, and perhaps after the first few weeks, if he'd shown a disposition to return to the old way of doing, they might have even attempted to keep him to his new course. They knew their way was a bad way. Each man was glad at heart when Christy made an innovation.

They came to the Sunday school and helped, controlling their laughter admirably whenever Uncle Moses prayed. And they listened to Christy's lessons, which, to say the least, were original, with a courteous deference, mingled with a kind of pride that one of their number could do this. They also refrained from urging him to go with them on any more flings. Always he was asked, but in a tone he came to feel meant they didn't expect him to accept, and would perhaps have been disappointed if he had. Once when Christy, not thinking, almost assented to go on an all-day ride with some of them,

Mortimer put his hand kindly on Christy's shoulder and said in a tone Christy had never heard him use before. I wouldn't, Chris, it might be a bore. Christy turned and looked earnestly into his eyes for a minute, then said, Thank you, Mort. As he stood watching them ride away, a sudden instinct made him reach his hand to,

Mortimer and say, Stay with me this time, old fellow. But the other shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, Christy thought, and said as he rode off after the others. Too late, Chris, it isn't any use. Christy thought about it a good deal that day as he went about his grove without his customary whistle. At night before he began his evening's reading and writing, he knelt and breathed his

first prayer for the soul of another. The winter blossomed into spring, and the soft wind blew the breath of yellow jessamine and bay blossoms from the swamps. Christy's wire fence bloomed out in a mass of Cherokee roses, and among the glossy orange leaves, many a white starry blossom gleamed, earnest of the golden fruit to come. With his heart throbbing and eyes shining, Christy picked his first orange blossoms, a good handful, and packing them according to the most approved methods. for long journeys, sent them to Hazel Winship. Never any oranges be they numbered by thousands of boxes could give him the pleasure that those first white wax and blossoms gave, as he laid his face gently among them,

and breathed the blessing on the one to whom they went before he packed them tenderly in their box. Christy was deriving daily joy now from Hazel Winship's friendship. Sometimes when he remembered the tender sentences in her letters, His heart fairly stood still with longing that she might know who he was and yet say them to him. Then he would crush this wish down, grind his heel upon it, and tell his better self that only on condition of never thinking such a thought again, would he allow another letter written to her, another thought sent her way.

Then he remembered the joy she'd already brought into his life and go smiling about his work, singing. He holds the key of all unknown, and I am glad. Hazel Winship spent most of that first summer after her graduation visiting among her college friends at various summer resorts at the seaside or on a mountain top. But she didn't forget to cheer Christy's lonely summer days, more lonely now because some of his friends had gone north for a while, with bits of letters written from shady nooks on a porch or a lawn or sitting in a hammock.

Christy, you're my safety valve. She wrote once. I think you take the place of a diary for me. Most girls use a diary for that. If I was at home with mother, I might use her sometimes, but there are a good many things that if I wrote her she'd worry, and there isn't any need, but I couldn't assure her. So you see, I have to bother you.

For instance, there's a young man here. here. Christy drew his brows together fiercely. This was a new aspect. There were other young men then, of course, and he drew a deep sigh. During the reading of that letter, Christy began to wish there were some way for him to make his real self-known to Hazel Winship. He began to see some reasons why what he'd done wasn't just all right. But there was a satisfaction in being the safety valve, and there was delight in their tristing hour when they made. met before the throne of God. Hazel suggested this when she first tried to help Christi Christward.

They kept it up, praying for this one and that one and for the Sunday school. Once Christy thought what joy it would be to kneel beside her and hear her voice praying for him. Would he ever hear her voice? The thought almost took his breath away. He hadn't dared think of it again. The summer deepened into autumn. The oranges, a generous number for the first crop.

green discs unseen amid their background of green leaves blushed golden day by day and then just as christie was becoming hopeful about how much he would get for his fruit a sadness came into his life that shadowed all the sunshine and made the price of oranges seem a very small affair for hazel wenship fell ill at first it didn't seem to be much a little indisposition a headache and loss of appetite she wrote christie she didn't feel well and couldn't write a long letter. Then a silence of unusual length came, followed by a letter from Ruth Summers, at whose home Hazel was staying when taken ill. It was brief and hurried and carried with it a hint of anxiety, which, as the days of silence grew into weeks, made Christy's heart heavy. Hazel is very ill indeed, she wrote, but she has worried so that I promised to write and tell you why she didn't answer your letter. The poor fellow comforted himself day after day with a thought that she had thought of him in all her pain and suffering. He rode to Ruth Summers, asking for news

of his dear friend, but whether from anxiety over the sick one, or being busy about other things, or perhaps from indifference, he couldn't tell. No answer came for weeks. During this sad time he ceased to whistle, a sadness deepened in his eyes that told of hidden pain. and his cheery ways with the Sunday school were gone. One day when his heart was especially heavy, and he found the Sabbath school lesson almost an impossibility, the little girl that had spoken to him before touched him gently on the arm. Mr. Christie feel bad.

Is somebody you all love sick? The tears almost filled Christy's eyes as he looked at her in surprise and nodded his head. You'm afraid they die? Again Christy nodded. He couldn't speak. Something was choking him. The sympathetic voice of the little girl was breaking down his self-control. The little black fingers touched his hand sorrowfully.

In her eyes was a longing to comfort, as she lifted them first to her beloved superintendent's face, and then to the picture above them. But you all's father's not dead, she pleaded shyly. Christy caught her meaning in a flash and marveled afterward that a child went so directly to the point. where he, so many years beyond her, missed it. He hadn't learned yet how God has revealed the wise things of this world unto the babes. No, Sylvie, he said quickly, grasping the little timid fingers. My father isn't dead. I'll take my trouble to him. Thank you.

The smile that broke over the little girl's face as she said goodnight was the first ray of the light that began to shine over Christy Bailey's soul, as he realized that God was not dead, and God was his father. When they were gone, he locked his doors and knelt before his heavenly father, pouring out his anguish, praying for his friends and for himself, yielding up his will and feeling the return of peace and assurance that God does all things well. Again as he slept, he saw the vision of the Christ bending over him in benediction, and when he awoke he found himself singing softly.

the key of all unknown, and I am glad. He wondered whether it was coincidence, and then knew it wasn't, that Ruth Summer's second letter reached him that day, saying that Hazel was at last past all danger and had spoken about Christy Bailey. So she, Ruth, hastened to send the message on, hoping the faraway friend would forgive her for the delay in answering. After that, Christy believed with his whole soul in prayer.

He set himself the pleasant task of writing to Hazel all he felt and experienced during her illness and long silence. When she grew well enough to write him again, he might send it. He wasn't sure. One paragraph he allowed himself in which to pour out the pent-up feelings of his heart. But even in this, he weighed every word. He began to long to be perfectly true before her and to wish there was a way to tell her all the truth about himself without losing her friendship.

This was the paragraph. I didn't know until you were silent how much of my life was bound up with yours. I can never tell you how much I love you, but I can tell God about it, the God you taught me to love. The very next day a note arrived from Ruth Summers saying that Hazel was longing to hear from Florida again and was now permitted to read her own letters. Then with joy he took his letter to the post office, and not long after received a little note in Hazel's own familiar hand, closing with the words. Who knows, perhaps you'll be able to tell me all about it someday after all. And Christy, when he read it, held his hand on his heart to quiet the pain and the joy.

Have you written to Christy Bailey that you're coming? said Victoria Landis, turning from the window of the drawing-room car, where she was studying. the changing landscape, so new and strange to her northern eyes. No, said Hazel, leaning back among her pillows. I thought it would be more fun to surprise her. Besides, I want to see things just exactly as they are, as she has described them to me. I don't want her to go and get fussed up to meet me. She wouldn't be natural at all if she did.

I'm positive she's shy, and I must take her unawares. After I've put my arms around her neck in regular girl fashion and kissed her cheek, she'll realize that it's just I. The one she has written to for a year and everything will be all right. But if she has a long time to think about it and conjure up all sorts of nonsense about her dress and mine and the differences in our stations, she wouldn't be at all the same, Christy. I love her just as she is, and that's the way I mean to see her first. I'm afraid, Hazel, you'll be dreadfully disappointed, said Ruth Summers.

Things on paper are never exactly like the real things. Now look out that window. Is this the land of flowers? Look at all that blackened ground where it's been burnt over and see those ridiculous green tufts sticking up every little way with an occasional stiff green palm leaf. As if children had stuck crazy old fans in a play garden, you know the real is never as good as the ideal, Hazel.

It's a great deal better, said Hazel positively. Those green tufts, as you call them, are young pines. Someday they'll be magnificent. Those little fans are miniature palms. That's the way they grow down here. Christy has told me all about it. It looks exactly to a dot as I expected, and I'm sure Christy will be even better. The two traveling companions looked lovingly at her

and remembered how near they came to losing their friend only a little while before. They said no more to dampen her high spirits. This trip was for Hazel to bring back the roses to her cheeks, and father, mother, brother, and friends were determined to do all they could to make it a success. The morning after they arrived at the hotel, Hazel asked to be taken at once to see Christy, she wanted to go alone, but since that wasn't to be considered in her convalescent state, she consented to take Ruth and Victoria with her. You'll go out in the Orange Grove and visit with the chickens while I have a little heart-to-heart talk with Christy, won't you, dears?

She said, as she gracefully gave up her idea of going alone. The old man who drove the carriage that took them there was exceedingly talkative. Yes, he knew Christy Bailey. Most everybody did. They imparted to him the fact that this visit was to be a surprise party, and arranged with him to leave them for an hour while he went on another errand and returned for them. These matters planned they settled down to cheerful talk. Victoria Landis on the front seat with the interested driver, who felt exceedingly curious about this party of pretty girls going to visit Christy Bailey

thus secretly, began to question him. Is Christy Bailey a very large person? She asked mischievously. Is she as large as I am? You see we've never seen her. The old man looked at her quizzically. Never seen her, oh, he said dryly. Well, yes, for a girl, I should say she was Ruther big.

Yes, I should say she was fully as big as you be, if not bigger. Has she very red hair? Went on Victoria. She had a purpose in her mischief. She didn't want Hazel to be disappointed too much. Rother, responded the driver, then he chuckled unduly, it seemed to Hazel, and added, Rother read, "'Isn't she at all pretty?' asked Ruth Summers, leaning forward with a troubled air,

as if to snatch one ray of hope. "'Purdy!' chuckled the driver. "'Well, no, I shouldn't exactly call her purty. "'She's got nice eyes,' he added as an afterthought. "'There,' said Hazel, sitting up triumphantly, "'I knew her eyes were magnificent. "'Now please don't say any more.' The driver turned his twinkly eyes around, stared at Hazel,

and then clucked the horse over the deep sandy road. He set them down at Christie's gateway, telling them to knock at the cabin door. They would be sure to be answered by the owner, and he would return within the hour. Then he drove his horse reluctantly away, turning his head back as far as he could see, hoping Christy would come to the door.

He wanted to see what happened. For half a mile down the road, he laughed to the blackjacks and occasionally exclaimed. No, she ain't just to say, Purdy, but she's good. I mighta told him she was good. This was the driver's tribute to Christy. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of The Story of a Wem by Grace Livingston Hill. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters.

Chapter 9. The Discovery Hazel walked up to the door of the cabin in a dream of anticipation realized. The periwinkles nodded their bright eyes along the border of the path, and the chicken stood there on one kid foot of yellow, just as Christy had described. She could almost have found the way here alone from the letters. She drank in the air and felt it give new life to her, and she thought of the pleasant hours she would spend with Christy during the weeks that were to follow, and of her secret plan to take Christy back home with her for the winter. They knocked at the door which was open, and stepping in stood surrounded by the

familiar things. All three felt the delight of giving these few simple gifts, which were so little to them when they were given. Then a merry whistle sounded from the backyard, and heavy steps on the board path at the back door, and Christy walked in from the barn with a frying-pan in one hand and a dishpan in the other. He had gone out to scrape some scraps from his table to the chickens in the yard. The blood rushed to his cheeks at the sight of his three elegant visitors. He put the cooking utensils down on the stove with a thud and pulled off his old straw hat, revealing his garnet-tinted hair in all its glory against the sunshine of a Florida sky in the doorway behind him. Is Christy Bailey at home? Question Victoria Landis, who seemed the natural

spokesperson for the three. I am Christy Bailey, said the young man seriously, looking from one to another. Won't you sit down? There was a moment's pause before the tension broke, and then a pained, sweet voice, the voice of Christy's dreams spoke. But Christy Bailey is a young woman. Christy looked at Hazel and knew his hour had come. No, I am Christy Bailey, he said once more, his big honest eyes pleading for forgiveness. Do you really mean it? said Victoria, with amusement growing in her eyes, as she noted his every fine point, noted the broad shoulders and the way he had of carrying his head up, noted the flash of his eyes and the toss of rich waves from his forehead.

And, you're not a girl, after all, questioned Ruth Summers in a frightened tone, looking with troubled eyes from Christy to Hazel, who had turned quite white. But Christy was looking straight at Hazel, his soul come to judgment before her, his mouth closed, unable to plead his own cause. Evidently not, remarked Victoria dryly. What extremely self-evident facts you find to remark upon Ruth! But the others didn't hear them. They were facing one another, these two who held communion of soul for so many months,

and who, now that they were face to face, were suddenly cut asunder by a number. an insurmountable wall of a composition known as truth. Hazel's dark eyes burned wide and deep from her white face. The enthusiasm that could make her love an unseen unlovely woman could also glow with scorn for one she despised. The firm little mouth he had admired was set and stern. Her lips were as pallid as her cheeks, while the light of truth fairly scintillated from her countenance. Then you have been deceiving me all this time! Her voice was high and clear, tempered by her late illness and sharp with pain. Her whole alert, graceful body expressed the utmost scorn. She could have posed as a model of the figure of

retribution. And in that awful minute, Christy met her eye for eye and saw the judgment of guilty pronounced upon him, could only acknowledge it as just, and saw before him the blankness of the punishment that was to be his. Yet he had time to think with a thrill of delight, that Hazel was all and more that he dreamed of her as being. He had time to be glad she was as she was. He would not have her changed one wit, retribution and all. It was over a minute, with the sentence issued, the girl turned and marched with stately step, out of the door down the white path to the road. But the little ripples of air she swept by in passing rolled back upon the culprit, a knowledge of her disappointment, chagrin, and humiliation.

Christy bowed his head in acceptance of his sentence and looked at his other two visitors, his eyes beseeching them to go and leave him to endure what had come upon him. Ruth was clinging to Victoria's arm frightened. She had seen the delicate white of Hazel's cheek as she went out the door, but Victoria's eyes were dancing with fun. Why didn't you say something? She demanded of Christy. Go out and stop her before she gets away.

See, she's out there by the hedge. You can make it all right with her. Pity was in her voice. She liked the honest eyes and fine bearing of the young man. Besides, she loved fun and didn't like to see this most enticing situation spoiled at the climax. A light of hope sprang into Christy's eyes as he turned to follow her suggestion. It didn't take him long to overtake Hazel's slow step on the soft sandy ground. I must tell you how sorry I am. He began before he quite caught up to her. But she turned and faced him with her hand lifted in protest. If you're sorry, then please don't say another word.

I will forgive you, of course, because I'm a Christian, but don't speak to me again. I hate deceit. Then she turned and sped down the road like a flash in spite of her weakness. Christy stood in the road where she left him. His head bared to the winter's sunshine, looking as if he'd been struck in the face by a loved hand, his whole strong body trembling. Victoria, meanwhile, was taking in the situation. She noticed Hazel's photograph, framed in a delicate tracery of Florida Moss.

Then she frowned, Hazel would never permit that to stay here now, and her instinct told her it would be missed by its present owner, and that he had the kind of honor that would not keep it if it were demanded. This mustn't be in sight when Hazel comes back. She whispered softly, disengaging herself from Ruth's clinging hand and going vigorously to work. She took down the photograph, slipped off the moss, and looking around for a place of concealment, hid it in the breast pocket of an old coat lying on a chair nearby. Then, going to the door, she watched for developments.

But as she perceived that Hazel had fled and Christy was dazed, she decided she was needed elsewhere, and calling Ruth hurried down the road. If you miss anything, look in your coat pocket for it, she said as she passed Christy in the road, but Christy was too much overcome to take in what she meant. He went back to his cabin. The light of the world seemed crushed out for him. Even the organ and the couch and the various pleasing touches that entered his home through these northern friends a year ago seemed to withdraw themselves from him.

It was as if they had discovered the mistake in his identity and were frowning their disapproving. and letting him know he was holding property under false pretences. Only the loving eyes of the pictured Christ looked tenderly at him, and with a leap of heart, Christy realized that Hazel gave him one thing she could never take away. With something almost like a sob, he threw himself on his knees before the picture, and cried out in anguish, my father. Christy didn't eat supper that night. He forgot that there was any need for anything but comfort and forgiveness in the world.

He knelt there praying sometimes, but most of the time just letting his heart lie bleeding and open before his father's eyes. The night fell and still he knelt. Eventually he felt a kind of comfort in remembering the little black girl's words. You all's father's not dead. He was not cut off from his father. Something like peace settled upon him, a resignation and a strength to bear. To think the situation over clearly and see what? whether he could do anything was beyond him. His rebuke had come. He could not justify himself.

He had done wrong, though without intention. Besides, it was too late to do anything now. He had been turned out of Eden. The angel with a flaming sword had bidden him think no more to enter. He must go forth and labor, but God was not dead. The days after that passed slowly and dully. Christy hardly took account of time. He was like, one laden with a heavy burden and made to pull it on a long road. He had started and was plotting his best every day, knowing an end would come sometime, but it would be hard and long. Gradually he came out of the days Hazel's words had put upon him. Gradually he felt himself forgiven by God for his deceit, but he wouldn't discuss even with his own heart the possibility of forgiveness

from Hazel. She was right, of course. He knew from the first that her friendship did not belong to him. He would keep the memory of it safe, and in time when he could bear to think it over, it would be a precious treasure. At least he could prove himself worthy of the year of her friendship he had enjoyed. But thinking his sad thoughts and going about the hardest work he could find, he avoided the public road as much as possible, taking the little by-paths when he went out from his own grove. Thus one morning, Christie emerged from a tangle of hummockland where the live-boaks arched high above him. The wild grape and jasmine snarled themselves from magnolia to bay tree in exquisite patterns, and rare orchids defied the world of fashion to find their hidden lofty homes.

Here he heard voices near and the soft footfalls of well-shot horses on the rich rudy earth of the bridle path. He stepped to one side to let the riders pass, for the way was narrow, just where a ray of sunlight came through a clearing he stood, and the light fell around him, on his bared head, for he held his hat in his hand, making his head look like one from a painting of an old master, all the copper tints shining above the clear depths of his eyes. He knew who was coming. It was for this he had removed his hat. His forehead shone white in the shadowed road, where the hat had kept off the sunburn, and about his face had come a sadness and a dignity that glorified his plainness. Haisel rode the forward horse. She looked weary, and the flesh in her cheeks was

not altogether one of health. She was controlling herself wonderfully, but her strength was not what they had hoped it would be when they brought her to the south. The long walk she took under pressure of excitement almost wore her out. She'd been unable to go out since until this afternoon, when, with the sudden willfulness of the convalescent she insisted on a horseback ride. She'd gone much far than her two faithful friends thought wise and then suddenly turned toward home too weary to ride rapidly and now she came at this turn upon christie standing sun glorified his head inclined in deference his eyes pleading his whole bearing one of reverence she looked at him started and knew him that was plain then her face a deadly white her eyes straight ahead she rode by majestically with a steady unknowing gaze that cut him like a knife, just glinting by from her in passing. He bowed his head, acknowledging her right to do thus with him, but all the blood in his body surged into his face, and then receding, left him as

white as the girl who just passed by him. Victoria and Ruth, behind, saw and grieved. They bowed graciously to him, as if to try to make up for Hazel's act, but he scarcely seemed to see them, for he was gazing down the narrow, shadowed way after the straight little figure, sitting her horse so resolutely and riding now so fast. I didn't know you could be so cruel, Hazel, said Victoria riding forward beside her. That fellow was just magnificent and you have stabbed him to the heart. But Hazel had stopped her horse, dropped her bridle and was slipping white and limp from her saddle to the ground. She had not heard. It was Sunday morning before they had time to think or talk more about it. Hazel had made them very anxious, but Sunday morning,

she felt a little better, and they were able to slip into her darkened room, one at a time, and say a few words to her. "'Something must be done,' said Victoria decidedly, scowling out the window at the ripples of the blue lake below the hotel lawn. "'I can't understand how this thing has taken such a great hold on her, but I feel sure it's that and nothing else that's making her so ill. Don't you think so, Ruth?' "'It's the disappointment,' said Ruth, with troubled eyes.

She told me this morning that it almost shook her faith in prayer and God, to think she prayed so for the conversion of that girl's soul. And then found out it was a creature after all without a soul, laughed Victoria. She never could refrain from saying something funny whenever she happened to think of it. But Ruth went on. It wasn't his being a man at all instead of a girl. She wouldn't have minded who he or she was if it hadn't been for the deceit. She says he went through the whole thing with her, professed to be converted, and a very earnest Christian, and to pray for other people, and talked about Christ in a wonderful way.

And now to think he did it all for a joke, it just crushes her. She thinks he deceived her, of course, in those things too. She says a man who would deceive in one thing would do so in another. She doesn't believe now even in his Sunday school. And then you know she's so enthusiastic that she must have said a lot of loving things. to him. She's just horrified to think she's been carrying on a first-class, low-down flirtation with an unknown stranger. I think the sooner she gets away from this part of the country the better. She ought to forget all about it. But she wouldn't forget, you know Hazel. And besides, the doctor says it might be death to her to go back into the cold now with her present health. No, Ruth, something else has to be done. What can be done, Victoria? You always talk

as if you could do anything if you only said about it. I'm not sure but I could, said Victoria laughing. Wait and see, this thing has to be reduced to plain ordinary terms and have all the heroics and tragedy taken out of it. I may need your help, so be ready. After that, Victoria went to her room, from which she emerged about an hour later and made her way by back halls and by-paths

and finally unseen down the road. She wasn't quite sure of the way, but by retracing her steps occasionally, she arrived in front of Christie's cabin, just as Aunt Tildy was setting her spectacles for the opening hymn. She looked around for a few minutes until the singing was well along, and then slipped noiselessly through the sand to the side of the house. After a few experiments, she discovered a crevice through which she could get a limited view of the Sunday school. A smile of satisfaction hovered about her lips. At least the Sunday school was a fact. So much she learned from her trip. Then she settled herself to listen.

Christy was praying. It was the first time Christy's voice had been heard by anyone but his master in prayer. It happened simply enough. Uncle Moses had been sent away to the village for a doctor for a sick child, and there was no one else to pray. To Christy, it wasn't such a trial as it would have been a year ago. He had talked with his heavenly father many times since that. first cry in the night. But he was not an orator. His words were simple. Jesus Christ,

we make so many mistakes, and we sin so often. Forgive us. We're not worth saving, but we thank you that you love us, even though all the world turn against us, and though we hate our own selves. Victoria found her eyes filling with tears. If Hazel could only hear that prayer. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of The Story of a Wem by Grace Livingston Hill. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters.

Chapter 10. Victoria has a finger in the pie. During the singing of the next hymn, the organist came within range of the watcher's eye, and she noted with surprise the young man, Mr. Mortimer, to whom she'd been in introduced in the hotel parlor a few evenings before. He was a cousin of those mortimers from Boston who roomed next to Ruth. He would be at the hotel again. He would be another link in the evidence, for Victoria had set out to sift the character of Christy Bailey through and through. She was chained to the spot by her interest during the chalkboard lesson, which by shifting

her position a trifle she could see as well as here. But during the singing of the closing him, she left in a panic. And when the dusky crowd flowed out into the road, she was well on her way toward home. And no one, save the yellow-footed chickens that clucked around her feet were the wiser. Victoria didn't immediately make known to Ruth the afternoon's events. She had other evidence to gather before she presented it before the court. She wanted to be sure of Christy before she put her finger in the pie at all. Therefore, she was on the lookout for young Mr. Mortimer. She hoped he'd visit his aunt Sunday evening, but if he did, he wasn't in evidence. All day Monday she haunted the porches and entrances, but he didn't come until Tuesday evening.

Victoria, in the meanwhile, made herself agreeable to Mrs. Mortimer, and it didn't take her long to monopolize the young man when he finally came. Indeed, he was attracted to her from the first. They were soon seated comfortably in two large porch chairs, watching the moon rise out of little lake and frame itself in wreaths of long gray moss, which reached out lace-like fingers and seemed to try to snare it. But always it slipped through until it sailed high above serene, such a great moon and so different from a northern moon. Victoria did justice to the scene with a fine supply of adjectives and then addressed herself to her self-appointed task. Mr. Mortimer, I wonder if you know a man down here by the name of Bailey, Christy Bailey.

Tell me about him, please. Who is he? And how did he come by such a strange name? Is it short for Christopher? She settled her fluffy dress around her in the moonlight and fastened her eyes on Mortimer with interest. He felt he had a pleasant task before him to speak of his friend to this charming girl. Certainly, I know Chris well. He's one of the best fellows in the world.

Yes, his name is an odd one, a family name, I believe. His mother's family name, I think he told me once. No, no Christopher about it, just plain Christy. But how in the world do you happen to know anything about him? He told me once he hadn't a friend left in the north. Victoria was prepared for this. Oh, I heard someone talking about a Sunday school he had started, and I'm interested in Sunday schools myself.

Did he come down here as a sort of missionary, do you know? She asked the question innocently enough, and Mortimer waxed earnest in his story. No, indeed, no missionary about Christy. Why, Miss Landis, a year ago, Christy was one of the toughest fellows in Florida. He could play a fine hand at cards and drink as much whiskey as the next one, and there wasn't one of us with a readier tongue when it was loosened up with plenty of drinks. I hope you're not one of that kind, said Victoria sincerely, looking at the fine, restless eyes and handsome profile outlined in the moonlight.

A shade of sadness crossed his face. No one had spoken to him like that in a long time. He turned and looked into her eyes. It's kind of you to care, Miss Landis. Perhaps if I'd met someone like you a few years ago, I'd have been a better fellow. Then he sighed and continued. A strange change came over Christie about a year ago. Someone sent him an organ and some things for his room, supposing he was a girl, from his name, I believe. They got hold of his name at the freight station

where his goods were shipped. They must have been uncommon people to send so much to a stranger. There was a fine picture, too, which he keeps on his wall, some religious work of a great artist. He treasures it above his orange grove, I believe. Well, those things made the most marvelous change in that man. You wouldn't have known him. Some of us fellows went to see him soon after it happened. We thought it would be a joke to carry out the suggestion that came with the organ that Christie start a Sunday school. So we invited neighbors from all around, went up their Sunday and fixed seats all over his cabin. He was as mad as could be, but he couldn't help himself. So instead of knocking us all out and sending the audience home, he just pitched in and had a

Sunday school. He wouldn't allow any laughing either. We fellas had taken lunch and a case of bottles over to make the day a success. When Armstrong, he's the second son of an Earl, came in with a case of liquor. Chris rose up mightily. Perhaps you don't know Christy has red hair. Well, he has a temper just like it, and he suddenly rose up and fairly blazed at us, eyes and hair and face. He looked like a strong avenging angel. I declare he was magnificent. We never knew he had it in him. Well, from that day forward, he took hold of that Sunday school, and he changed all his ways. He didn't go to any more gatherings of the clan, as we called them.

We were so proud of him we wouldn't have let him if he'd tried. Some of the fellows come to the Sunday school and help every Sunday, sing, you know, and play. We all stand by him. He's good as gold. Not many could live alone in a Florida Orange Grove from one years in to another. and keep themselves from evil the way Christy Bailey has. Wouldn't you like to see the Sunday School sometime? I'll get Chris to let me bring you if you say so.

Victoria smilingly said she would enjoy it. Then, her interest in Christy Bailey satisfied, she turned her attention to the young man before her. You didn't answer my question a while ago about yourself. There was a pleading in Victoria's voice, and the young man before her was visibly embarrassed. The tones grew more earnest. The moon looked down upon the two sitting there quietly.

The voices of the night surrounded them, but they didn't hear. Victoria had found a mission of her own while trying to straighten out another's. But the next morning early, Victoria laid out her campaign. She took Ruth out for a walk, and on the way she told her what she intended to do. And you proposed to go to Christy Bailey's house this morning, Victoria, without telling Hazel anything of it. Indeed, Vic, I'm not going to do any such thing. What would Mrs. Winship say? Mrs. Winship will say nothing about it, for she will never know anything about it. Besides, I don't care what she says so long as we straighten things out for Hazel. Don't you see that

Hazel must understand that she hasn't failed after all, that the young man was sincere and really meant to be a Christian? And that the only thing he failed in was not in having courage to speak out and tell her she'd made a mistake. He didn't intend any harm, and after it went on for a while, of course, it was harder to tell. Now, Ruth, there's no use in your saying you won't go, for I've got to have a chaperone, you know. I couldn't go alone, and I shall go with or without you, so you may as well come. Reluctantly, Ruth went, half fearful of the result of this daring girl's plan, and only half understanding what she meant to do. Christy came to the the door when they knocked. He looked eagerly beyond them into the sunshine, hunting for another

face, but none appeared. Victoria's eyes were dancing. She isn't here, she said mockingly, rightly interpreting his searching gaze. So you better ask us in, or you won't find out what we came for. It's very warm out here in the sun. Christy smiled a sad smile and asked them in. He couldn't guess what they'd come for and waited solemnly for them to speak. Now, sir, said Victoria with decision, I want you to understand that you've been the cause of a great deal of suffering and disappointment. Christy took on at once a look of haggard misery as he listened anxiously, not taking his eyes from the speaker's face. Victoria was enjoying her task immensely. The young man looked more handsome wearing that abject

expression. It would do him no harm to suffer a little longer. Anyway, he deserved it, she thought. You were aware, I think, from a letter Miss Summers wrote you, that Miss Winship was very ill before she came down here, that she almost died. Here Ruth nodded her head severely. She felt like meeting out judgment to this false-hearted young man. Perhaps you don't know that the long walk she took from your house last week, after the startling revelation she received here, was enough to kill her in her weak condition. Christy's white, anxious face gave Victoria, Flitting twinge of conscience. Possibly the young man had suffered enough already

without her adding anything to it, but she went on with her prepared program. You also probably don't know that the other day when she was riding horseback, she controlled herself until she passed you, and then was utterly overcome by the humiliation of seeing you and slipped from her horse onto the road, unconscious. Since that time she has been hovering between life and death.

Victoria had carefully weighed that sentence and decided that, while it might be a trifle overdrawn, the circumstances nevertheless justified the statement. For truly they had feared for Hazel's life several times during the last two or three days. But a groan escaped the young man's white lips, and Victoria springing to her feet, realized that his punishment had been enough. She walked toward him involuntarily, with pity on her face. "'Don't look like that,' she said. "'I think she'll get well,

"'but I also think, since you're to blame for a good deal of the trouble, "'it's time you offered to do something.' "'What could I do?' said Christy in horse eagerness. "'Well, I think if you were to explain to her how it all happened, "'it might change the situation somewhat.' "'She has forbidden me to say a word,' answered Christy in clear misery. "'Oh, she has, has she?' said Victoria. surveying him with dissatisfaction.

Well, you ought to have done it anyway. You should have insisted, that's a man's part. She has to know the truth somehow, and get some of the tragedy taken out of this. Or she'll suffer for it, that's all. And there's no one to explain but you. You see, it isn't the pleasantest thing to find one has written all sort of confidences to a strange young man. Hazel is blaming herself, as any common flirt might do, if she had a conscience.

But that, of course, though extremely humiliating to her pride, isn't the worst. She feels terrible about your deceiving her and pretending you are a Christian, and she was all the time praying her life out for you while you were having a joke out of it. It hurt her self-respect a good deal, but it has hurt her religion more. Christy raised his head in protest, but Victoria went on. Wait a minute, please. I want to tell you I believe she's mistaken. I don't believe you are playing a part.

telling her you'd become a Christian, were you? Or that you were making fun of her enthusiasm and trying to see how far she would go just for fun? I've never written anything in joke to Miss Winship. I honor and respect her beyond anyone else on earth. I have never deceived her in anything, except that I didn't tell her who I was. I thought there was no harm in it when I did it, but I now see it was a terrible mistake, and I feel that I owe my salvation to Miss Winship. she introduced me to Jesus Christ. I'm trying to make him my guide. The young man raised his head and turned his eyes with acknowledgement toward the pictured Christ as he declared his faith. Victoria and Ruth were awed into admiration. I almost expected to see a halo spring up behind his copper hair, said Victoria to

Ruth on the way home. Victoria had arranged to send him word when he could see Hazel, and the two girls went away, leaving Christy in a state of conflicting emotions. He could do nothing. He sat and thought and thought, going over all his acquaintance with Hazel, singling out what he told her of his own feelings toward Christ. And she thought he did it all in joke. He began to see how hideous his action was in her eyes. Knowing her pure, lovely soul as he did through her letters, he felt keenly for her. How could he blame her for her condemning him? And that day he found in the breast pocket of his old working coat, the photograph of Hazel so prized and so sadly missed since the day of her visit. He had supposed Victoria took it, but now he recalled her words about it as

she ran after Hazel, smiling into the sweet girlish face. He wondered whether she would ever forgive him. The next day a note came from Victoria, saying he might call at seven o'clock. on Saturday evening, and Hazel could likely see him a few minutes. A post-script to the writer's original style added, and I hope you'll have sense enough to know what to say. If you don't, I'm sure I can't do anything more for you. And Christy echoed the cry too deeply to be able to smile over it. Victoria had laid her plans carefully. She arranged to spend more time with Hazel than she had, pleading a headache as an excuse from going out for a ride in the hot sun and sending Mrs. Winship in her place more than once. She found that Hazel had no intention of opening

her heart to her, so she determined to make a move herself. Hazel had been very quiet for a long time. Victoria thought she was asleep until at last she noticed a little quiver of her lip and the tiniest glisten of a tear rolling down the thin white cheek. As though she didn't see, she got up and moved around the room a moment, and then in a cheery tone began to tell her story. Hazel dear, I'm going to tell you where I went last Sunday. It was so interesting. I wandered off alone out into the country,

and eventually heard some singing in a little log cabin by the road. I slipped into the yard behind some crape-merdle bushes all in lovely brook. bloom, where I was hidden. Through a crack between the logs, I could see three rows of black children and some older people, too. And at the organ, there was a nice organ standing against the wall, sat Mr. Mortimer, that young man we met in the parlor the other evening. Mrs. Boston Mortimer's nephew, you know, some other young men were there too, and they were all singing. After the singing there was a prayer. One of the young men prayed. It was all about being forgiven for mistake. and sins and not being worth Christ saving. It was a beautiful prayer. And Hazel, it was Christy

Bailey, who prayed. End of Chapter 10. Chapter 11 of the story of a whim by Grace Livingston Hill. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Like Many Waters. Chapter 11. A daring maneuver. Hazel caught her breath when she heard of Christy's and a bright flush glowed on her cheek. Then he taught the lesson. Victoria continued. And he did it well. Those little children never stirred.

They were so interested. Just as they were singing the closing hymn, I left in a hurry so they wouldn't see me. Victoria had timed her story from the window. She knew the carriage had returned and that Mother Winship would soon appear at the doorway. Hazel would have no chance to speak until she thought about the Sunday school a little while.

The footsteps were coming along the hall now, and she could hear Ruth calling to Hazel's brother. She had one more thing to say. Stepping over close to the couch, she whispered in Hazel's ear. Hazel, I don't believe he's deceived you about everything. I believe you've done him a great deal of good. Don't fret about it, dear. Hazel was brighter that evening, and Victoria often caught her looking thoughtfully at her. The next day when they were left alone, she said,

tell me what sort of lesson they had at the Sunday school, Vic, dear. Victoria launched into a full account of the chalkboard lesson and the odd-shaped little cards, which she couldn't quite see through the crack, that were passed around at the clothes and treasured she could see. Then cautiously, she told of the interview with Mr. Mortimer and his account of Christie's throwing the bottles out the door. The story lost none of its color from victorious repetition of it. When she finished, Hazel's eyes were bright,

and she was sitting up and smiling. Wasn't that splendid Vic? She said, and then remembering sank back thoughtfully upon the couch. Victoria was glad the others came in just then and she could slip away. She had said all she wished to say at present and would let things rest now until Saturday evening when Christy came. Victoria had arranged with Mrs. Windship to stay upstairs and have dinner with Hazel on Saturday evening

while the family with Ruth Summers went down to the dining room. she also arranged with the head waiter to send up hazel's dinner early and so with much maneuvering the coast was clear at seven hazel's dinner and her own disposed of and the family just gone down to the dining-room where they would be safe for at least an hour it was no part of victoria's plan that mother winship or tom or the judge should come in at an inopportune moment and complicate matters until hazel had had everything fully explained to her after that victorius's Victoria felt that she would wash her hands of the whole thing. Mother Windship had just rustled down the hall, and Victoria, who was standing by the hall door waiting until she was gone, walked over to where Hazel sat in a big soft chair by an open fire of pine knots. Hazel, she said in her matter-of-fact everyday tone.

Christy Bailey has come to find out if he may see you for a few minutes. He wants to say a few words of explanation to you. He's really suffered very much. and perhaps you'll feel less humiliated by this whole thing if you let him explain. Do you feel able to see him now? Hazel looked up, a bright flush on her cheeks. Victoria did not betray by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that she was anxious about the outcome of this simple proposal.

Hazel's clear eyes searched her face, and she bore the scrutiny well. Then Hazel sighed a troubled little breath and said, Yes, I'll see him, Vic. I feel quite strong tonight, and I guess it will be better after all for me to see him. Then Victoria felt sure it was a relief for him to come, and that Hazel had been longing for it for several days. Christy walked in solemnly with the tread of one who entered a sacred place, and yet with the quiet dignity of a gentleman unafraid. Indeed, so far had the object of his visit dominated him that he forgot to shrink from contact with a fashionable world from which he had been so much. entirely shut away for so long. He was going to see Hazel. It was the opportunity of his life.

As to what came after, it didn't matter, now that the great privilege of entering her presence had been accorded him. He hadn't permitted himself to believe she would see him, even after he sent up his card as directed to Miss Landis. Victoria shut the door gently behind him and left them together. She had prepared a chair not far away, where she might sit and guard the door against intrusion. So she sat and listened to the far away hum of voices in the dining room, the tinkle of silver and glass, and the occasional burst from the orchestra in the balcony above the dining room. But her heart stood still outside the closed door and wondered whether she had done well or ill, and she feared, now that she had done it,

all evil things that can pass in review at such a time for judgment on one's own deeds. Christy stood still before Hazel, the sight of her so thin and white, changed even from a week ago, startled him, condemned him again, took away his power of speech for the moment. She was dressed in soft white cashmere, with delicate lace that fell over the little white wrists like petals of a flower. Her silken brown hair made a halo for her face and was drawn simply and carelessly together at the back. Christy had never seen anyone half so lovely. He caught his breath in admiration of her. For one long minute they looked at each other. Then Hazel, who felt it hers to speak first, since she had silenced him before, said,

as a young queen might have said, with just the shadow of a smile flickering over her face. You may sit down. The gracious permission, with a slight indication of the chair facing her own by the fire, broke the spell that bound Christy's tongue. with a heart beating high over what he came to say he began the words he spoke were not the carefully planned words he had arranged to set before her they had fled and left his soul bare before her gaze he had nothing to tell but the story of himself you think i've deceived you he said speaking rapidly because his heart was beating in great quick bounds because i owe to you all the good i have in life i've come to tell you the whole truth about myself I thank you for giving me a few minutes to speak to you, and I'll try not to worry you. I've been too much trouble to you already.

I was a little boy when my mother died. Christy lowered his head as he talked now, and the firelight played fanciful lights and shades with the richness of his hair. Nobody loved me that I know of, unless it was my father. If he did, he never showed it. He was a silent man, and grieved about my mother's death. I was a homely little fellow, and they've always said I had the temper of my hair. My aunt used to say I was hard to manage.

I think that was true. I must have had some love in my heart, but nothing but my mother ever brought it out. I went through school at war with all my teachers. I got through because I naturally liked books. Father wanted me to be a farmer, but I wanted to go to college, so he gave me a certain sum of money and sent me. I used the money as I pleased. sometimes wisely and sometimes unwisely.

When I ran out of money, I earned some more or went without it. Father was not the kind of man to be asked for more. I had a good time in college, though I can't say I ranked as well as I might have. I studied what I pleased and left other things alone. Father died before I graduated, and the aunt who kept house for him soon followed. When I was through college I had no one to go to and no one to care where I went. Father signed a note for a man a little while before he died with a usual result of such things, and there was very little remaining for him to leave to me.

What there was I took and came to Florida. I had a reckless longing to see a new part of the world and make a spot for myself. I'd never known what home was since I was a little fellow, and I believe I was homesick for a home and something to call my own. Land was cheap and it was easy to work, I thought, and my head was filled with dreams of my future, but I soon saw that oranges didn't grow in a day and produce fortunes. Life was an awfully empty thing. Sometimes I used to lie awake at night and wonder what death would be, and if it wouldn't be as well to try it. But something in my mother's prayer for me

when I was almost a baby always kept me from it. She used to pray, God, make my little Chris a good man. After a while I got acquainted with a lot of other fellows in the same fix with me. They were sick of life, at least the life down here, and hard work and interminable waiting. But they'd found something more pleasant than death to make them forget. I went with them and tried their way. They played cards. I played too. I could play well.

We would drink and drink and play and drink again. A little moan escaped from the listener, and Christy looked up to find her eyes filled with tears. and her fingers clutching the arms of the chair until the nails were pink against the fingertips with the pressure. Oh, I'm doing you more harm, exclaimed Christy. I'll stop. No, no, said Hazel. Go on, please. She turned her face aside to brush away the tears that had gathered. I was always ashamed when it was over. It made me hate myself and life all the more. I often used to acknowledge to myself that I was doing about as much as I could to see that my mother's prayers didn't get answered. But still, I went on just the same way every so often. There didn't

seem to be anything else to do. Then the night before Christmas came, it wasn't anything to me more than any other day. It hadn't been since I was a baby. Mother used to fill my stocking with little things. I remember it just once. But this Christmas I felt particularly down. The orange trees weren't doing as well as I'd hoped. I was depressed by the horror of the monotony of my life, behind and before. Then your things came, and a new world opened before me. I wasn't very glad of it at first. I'm afraid I resented your kindness a little. Then I began to see they'd brought something home like with them, and I couldn't help liking it. But your letter gave me a strange feeling. There seemed to be obligations I couldn't fulfill. I didn't like to keep the things

because you wanted a Sunday school. I was much more likely to conduct a saloon or a pool room at that time than a Sunday school. Then I hung that picture up. You know what effect it had on me. I've told you about my strange dream or vision or whatever it was. Yes, it was all true. I never deceived you about that or anything else except that I didn't tell you I wasn't what you supposed. I thought it might embarrass you if I did so at first, and then it seemed only a joke to answer you as if I were a girl. I never dreamed it would go beyond that first letter when I wrote thanking you. you. His honest eyes were on her face, and Hazel couldn't doubt him. And then, when the writing went on, and the time came when I should have told you, something held me back. Forgive me for speaking

of it, but I'm trying to be perfectly true tonight. You remember in that second letter that you wrote me, where you told me that you were praying for me, and you, Christy caught his breath and murmured the words low and reverently. You said you loved me. Oh, gasped Hazel, clasping her hands over her face, while the blood rushed up to her temples. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill. This Liprovox recording is in the public domain, recording by Like Many Waters. Chapter 12. The whim completes its justification.

Forgive me, he pleaded. It doesn't need to hurt you. that love wasn't really mine. You gave it to the girl you thought I was. I knew without ever seeing you that you would have sooner cut out your tongue than write anything like that to a strange man. I should have seen at once that I was stealing something that didn't belong to me in taking that love. Maybe I wouldn't have put it from me, even if I'd seen it, for that love was very dear to me. Remember, I was never loved in my whole life by anyone but a mother who had been gone for so many years. Remember there was no one else to claim that love from you. And remember, I thought you'd never

need to know. I never dreamed you'd try to search me out. Your friendship was too dear for me to try. And two, I knew you would consider me far beneath you. I could never hope to have you for the most distant friend, even if you knew all about me from childhood. My hope for your help and comfort and friendship was in letting you imagine me as a lonely old maid. Remember, you said it yourself. I simply didn't tell you what I was. But I don't take one bit of blame from myself. I see now that I ought to have been a good enough man to tell you at once. I should have missed a great deal, perhaps, as human vision sees it.

Have missed even heaven itself, unless the very giving up of heaven for right had gained heaven for me. I can see it was all wrong. The father even then spoke to my heart. He would have found me in some other way, perhaps. It would have been your doing all the same, and I'd have had the joy of thanking you even so for my salvation, but I didn't. And now my punishment is that I have brought this suffering and disappointment and chagrin upon you. And if I could, I'd wipe out of my life the joy that has come to me through companionship with you by letters. If by so doing I might save you from this problem.

I have one more thing to tell you. Remember that only once, in so many words, have I dared to tell you this in writing. and then only in a hidden way, because I thought if you knew all about me, you wouldn't want me to say it. But now I must say it. My punishment is very great. Not only that you suffer, but that I've deserved your scorn, for I love you. I love you with every bit of unused love from my childhood days, along with all the love a man's heart has to give. I've loved you ever since the night I read from your letter that you loved me, a poor, forlorn, only girl as you thought, and that you thought I loved you too. I knew at once that it was so. I want you to know that ever since that night I

determined to be a person worthy of loving you. I never dared put it worthy of your love, because I knew that could never be for me. But I've tried to make myself a man you wouldn't be ashamed to have love you, even though you could never think of loving in return. And I've fallen short in your eyes, I know, but in what you didn't know of my life I've been true. Can you, knowing all this, forgive me, then I'll go out and try to live my life as you and God would have me do. And remember the joy that wasn't mine, but you gave me one joy that you can't take away. Jesus Christ is my friend. Now I've said all there is to say, and I must go away and let you rest. Can you find it in your heart to say you forgive me?

Christy rested his elbow on the arm of her chair and dropped his head on his hand, while the firelight flickered and glowed among the waves of ruddy hair again. He had said all there was to say, and he felt he had no hope. Now he must go out. The strength seemed suddenly to have left him. It was very still in the room for a moment. They could hear each other breathe. At last Hazel's hand reached timidly out toward him and rested like a rose-leaf among the dark curls. It was his benediction, he thought, his dream come true, it was her forgiveness. He held his breath and didn't stir. And then, more timidly still, Hazel herself slipped softly from her chair to her knees before him. The other hand shyly stole to his shoulder, and she whispered,

Christy, forgive me, I love you. Then Hazel's courage gave way, and she hid her blushing face against his sleeve. Christy's heart leapt up in all its manhood. He rose and drew her to her feet tenderly and folded his arms around her, as one might unfold an angel come for shelter. Then he bent his tall head over until his face touched her lily face, and he felt that all his desolation was healed. At that instant, steps were heard along the hall,

lingering noisely around the door. A hand rattled the doorknob, while victorious voice, unnecessarily loud from Ruth's point of view, called, Is that you, Ruth? Are the others through dinner yet? Would you mind stepping back to the office and getting the evening paper for me, I want to look at something. Then the door opened and Victoria came smiling in.

Time's up, she said playfully. The invalid mustn't talk another word tonight. Indeed, Victoria was most relieved that the time was up. She looked anxiously from Hazel to Christy to see whether she had done more harm than good, but Hazel leaned back smiling and flushed in her chair, and Christy standing tall and serious, with an inspired look on his face reassured her.

She led him out by another hall than the one the family would come up by. She was in such a hurry to get him away without being seen that she scarcely said a word to him. But he didn't know it. Well, is it all right? She laughed nervously as they reached the side doorway. It is all right, he said, with a joyous ring in his voice. Through the hall out the door and down the steps Christy Bailey went, His hat in his hand, his face exalted, the moonlight laying on his head a kingly crown.

He felt that he had been crowned that night, crowned with a woman's love. He looks as if he'd seen a vision, thought Victoria as she sped back to view the ruins, as she expressed it to herself. But Christy went on, his hat in his hand down the long white road, looking up to the stars among the pines, wondering at the greatness of the world and the graciousness of God, onto his little cabin no longer filled with loneliness. There, he knelt before the pictured Christ and cried, Oh, my father, I thank you. Quite early in the morning, Hazel requested a private interview with her father. Now it was a well-acknowledged fact that Judge Winship was

completely under his daughter's thumb, since the interview was a prolonged one. It was regarded as quite possible by the rest of the family party that there might be almost anything, from the endowment of a college settlement to a trip to Africa in process, and all awaited the result with some restlessness. But after dinner there were no developments. Hazel seemed bright and ready to sit on the porch and be read to. Judge Winship took his umbrella and sauntered out for a walk, having declined the company of the various members of his family. Mother Winship calmed her anxieties and decided to take a nap. Christy went about his morning tasks joyously, now and again his heart questioned what he had to hope for in the future, poor as he was.

But he put this resolutely down. He would rejoice in knowing Hazel's forgiveness and her love, even though it never brought him anything other than the joy of knowing. In this frame of mind, he looked forward exultantly to the Sunday school hour. When the young men entered, they wondered what had come over him, and the scholars greeted their superintendent with furtive nods and smiles. During the opening of the Sunday school, an elderly gentleman of fine presents came in, with iron-gray hair and keen blue eyes that looked piercingly out from under black brows.

Christy had been praying when he came in. Christy's prayers were an index to his life. During the singing of the next hymn, the superintendent walked back to the door to give a book to the stranger. And hesitating a moment, asked half shyly, will you say a few words to us or pray? Go on with your regular lesson, young man. I'm not prepared to speak. I'll pray at the close if you wish me to, said the stranger. Christy returned to his place, somewhat puzzled and embarrassed by the unexpected guest. He lingered after all were gone, having asked that he might have a few words with Christy alone.

Christy noticed that Mortimer had bowed to him in going out, and that he looked back curiously once or twice. My name is Winship, said the judge brusquely. I understand young man that you have told my daughter you love her. The color rose softly in Christy's temples until it flooded his whole face. But a light of love and daring came into his eyes as he answered the unexpected challenge seriously. I do, sir. Am I to understand, sir, by that that you wish to marry her? Christy caught his breath.

Hope and pain came quickly to defy one another. He stood still not knowing what to say. He realized his helplessness, his unfitness for the love of Hazel Winship. Because, went on the relentless judge. In my day it was considered a very dishonorable thing to tell a young woman you loved her unless you wish to marry her. And if you do not, I wish to know at once. Christy was white now and humiliated. Sir, he said sternly, I mean nothing dishonorable.

I honor and reverence your daughter, yes, and love her, next to Jesus Christ. and involuntarily his eyes met those of the picture on the wall whom she has taught me to love but since your daughter has told you about my love she must have also told you about the circumstances under which i told it to her if i hadn't been trying to clear myself from a charge of deceit in her eyes i would never have let her know the deep love i have for her i have nothing to offer her but my love judge winship is this the kind of home to offer your daughter it's all i have there was something pathetic almost tragic in the wave of christie's hand as he looked around the cabin well young man it's more comfortable than the place my daughter's father was born in there are worse homes than this but perhaps you're not aware that my daughter will have enough of her own for two christie threw his head back with his eyes flashing though his voice was sad sir i will never be supported by my wife if she comes to me she comes to the home i can offer her and it would have to be here now until i can do better as you please young man answered the judge shortly but a grim smile was upon his lips and his eyes twinkled as if he were pleased i like your spirit from all i hear of you you are quite worthy of her she thinks so anyway which is more to the point "'Have you enough to keep her from starving if she did come?' "'Oh, yes, Christy almost laughed in his eagerness.

"'Do you think, oh, it cannot be that she would come?' "'She'll have to settle that question,' said her father, rising. "'You have my permission to talk with her about it. "'As far as I can judge, she seems to have a fondness for the logs with the bark on them. "'Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey. "'I'm glad to have met you. "'You have a good Sunday school, and I respect you.' Christy gripped his hand until the old man almost cried out with the pain,

but he bore it smiling grimly and went on his way. And Christy, left alone in his little glorified room, knelt once more and called joyously. My father, my father. This is perfectly ridiculous, said Ruth Summers, looking dismally out of the swiftly moving train window at the vanishing oaks and pines. The wedding guests going off on the bridal tour and the bride and bridegroom staying by, behind. I can't think whatever has possessed Hazel, married in white cashmere under a tree, and not a single thing belonging to a wedding, not even a wedding breakfast.

You forget the wedding march, said Victoria, a vision of the organist's fine head coming to her, and the strawberries for breakfast. A wedding march on that old organ, sneered Ruth, with a row of children for an audience and sand for a background. Well, Hazel was original, to say the least. I hope she'll settle down now and do as other people do. She won't, said Victoria positively. She'll keep on having a perfectly lovely time all her life. Do you remember how she once said she was going to take Christy Bailey to Europe? Well, I reminded her of it this morning. She laughed and said she hadn't forgotten it. It was the one thing she married him for. He looked down at her wonderingly and asked what that was, how he does worship her.

Yes, and she's perfectly infatuated with him. I'm sure one would have to be to live in a shanty. I don't believe I could love any man enough for that. She said reflectively, studying the back of Tom Winship's well-trimmed head in the next seat. Then you better not get married, said Victoria. She looked dreamily out of the window at the hurrying palmettoes and added, one might if one loved enough. Then she was silent, thinking of a promise that was made to her,

a promise of better things. signed by a true look from a pair of handsome, courageous eyes. Christy and Hazel watched the train as it vanished from their sight, and then turned slowly toward their home. It's a palace to me now that you are in it, my wife. Christy pronounced the words with wonder and awe. You dear old organ, it was you that did it all, said Hazel, touching the keys tenderly,

and turning to Christy with tears of joy standing in her eyes, she put her hands in his and said, My husband. Then, as if by common consent, they knelt together hand in hand beneath the picture of the Christ, and Christy prayed. And now his prayer began, Our Father. End of Chapter 12. End of the Story of a Wim by Grace Livingston Hill.