"But she doesn't understand," faltered Helen.
The man shook his head. A wistful smile was on his lips.
"No, she doesn't—understand," he said. "It's a long road to—understanding, dear. You and I have found it so."
"Yes, I know." Helen's voice was very low.
"And there are sticks and stones and numberless twigs to trip one's feet," went on the man softly. "And there are valleys of despair and mountains of doubt to be encountered—and Betty has come only a little bit of the way. Betty is young."
"But"—it was Helen's tremulous voice—"it's on the mountain-tops that—that we ought to be able to see the end of the journey, you know."
"Yes; but there are all those guideboards, remember," said the man, "and Betty hasn't come to the guideboards yet—regret—remorse—forgiveness—patience, and—atonement."
There was a sudden movement at the window. Then Betty, misty-eyed, stood before them.
"I know I am—on the mountain of doubt now, but"—she paused, her gaze going from one to the other of the wondrously glorified faces before her—"I'll try so hard to see—the end of the journey," she faltered.
"Betty!" sobbed two adoring voices, as loving arms enfolded her.