The cart stops; the bulgy bag, the paper parcel, and big bunch of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers are lifted in. Betty turns to Grannie for the final kiss.
"Remember, dear, the little crosses of daily life, borne bravely and cheerfully for Jesus' sake, will make you a true Soldier, and win a crown of glory by and by," whispers Grannie, as she presses her grandchild in her kind arms.
Betty nods, and then turns her head away very quickly; she dare not trust herself to speak.
The cart moves away. Yes, now, indeed, her holiday is over!
The blue sky, the golden gorse, the fresh, sweet air of the moors, they are still around her, but they belong to her no more.
Through a mist of tears she looks back at the little cottage where she has been so happy; Grannie still stands by the gate—round that turn in the road beyond is the village, and the little Salvation Army Hall, where Grannie goes every Sunday.
It was at the close of the Meeting last night that she gave her heart to God. Then afterwards, in her dear little bedroom, with her head buried in Grannie's lap, she felt so strong, so sure—and now?
"Oh, dear; Oh, dear," she sobs, "it is all so different at home!"