"No use, Miss Gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere else."
And by and by they began to know that Ruthy would never go where pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. Sorrow and privation and weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. But Ruthy was very happy. The unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the country was all over. She had tried her experiment, and found out, as she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly winding ways, and she was content to watch it as Gifford painted it, and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched.
One night when Gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up at Mrs. Brierly.
"How beautiful God can make children, ma'am. I think they'll all be so, in the true country." Then reaching forward she took Mrs. Brierly's hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips.
"Oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good."
The next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter than ever. She would never speak again to tell her disappointment or her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her young, wistful mouth, and Mrs. Brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss Gracie's tears away, and said,—
"Do not cry, my darling,—I think, at last, Ruthy has found the true country."