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now as any time.”
    Poor Celia! She had no words ready for such trouble as this. Debt had always been to her an awful thing, a great sin, never to be committed. She never realized that there were people to whom to be in debt seemed the normal way of living from day to day. She tried to think of something comforting to say, for how could a woman get well with such a weight as this on her mind? It would do no good to quote verses of Scripture about taking no thought for the morrow, nor to quote that sweet poem of hers about not bearing next week’s crosses. The poor woman would not understand. She had not so lived in the past as to know how to claim the promise of being cared for. She would scarcely understand if Celia tried to tell her that if she would but cast her care now on Jesus he would help her in some way at once. This was what she longed to say, but her experience of the night before led her to fear saying anything which might excite the poor nervous woman.
    “How much money do you need to pay all your debts and set you straight again?” she asked, thinking a little opportunity to go over her troubles might quiet her.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” wailed the poor woman. “If I just had a thousand dollars, I’d sell out me business and go somewhere and get out of it. Things seem to be getting worse and worse.” She began to cry feebly, and Celia was at her wits’ end. Everything she said seemed to make matters worse. Suddenly she began to sing in a low soft voice,
     
    “Jesus, Saviour, pilot me,
    Over life’s tempestuous sea.”
     
    Her voice was sweet and pure, and the woman paused to listen while Celia sang on until she fell asleep.
     

Chapter 4
    CELIA discovered that the firm of lawyers who had written her, had their office in a building not many blocks from Dobson and Co.’s store. She felt anxious to find out what they wanted of her, and so the next morning she obtained permission for a few minutes’ extra time at the lunch hour and hastened there.
    She reached the number at last, and searched the dirty sign board for the names “Rawley and Brown.” There it was almost the last one on the list, “Fourth floor, back.” She climbed up the four flights of stairs, for the elevator was out of order and arrived panting before the dingy office. When she entered the room, two elderly men sat at desks on which were piled many papers, and each was talking with a client who sat near his desk. They did not cease their talking with these men until Celia had stood for some moments by the door. Then the elder of the two looked over his glasses at her, and she ventured to say she was Miss Murray come in response to their letter. She was given a chair and asked to wait until Mr. Rawley was at leisure, and in the course of a few minutes both the clients had withdrawn, and she was left alone with the two lawyers. Over in the corner behind a screen, she could hear the click of a typewriter and see the top of a frizzy head which she knew must belong to the operator, probably the one who had written the letter to her.
    Mr. Rawley at last turned to her and began a list of questions. Celia answered everything she could, wondering when this mystery would be explained. As soon as she had finished telling Mr. Rawley the names of her different living relatives, he cleared his throat and looked at her sharply and yet thoughtfully:
    “Miss Murray,” said he, as if about to ask something very important, “did you ever hear your father speak of having a great uncle?”
    Celia paused to think a moment. She had been but ten years old when her father died. She could remember some conversations between her father and mother about relatives whom she had never seen. She searched her mind.
    “I’m not sure about the ‘great’ part of it. He might have been a great uncle, but I know there was one father called uncle Abner. He must have died long ago. He was a very old man then. I can remember father saying laughingly to mother one