Helen's joys had come between her and this once dear home life, and even while Lois was telling her of her cruel anxiety, and Helen was listening with a face full of sympathy, her thoughts were following John on his lonely walk back from prayer-meeting, and greeting him in the doorway of the empty house.

Of course the consciousness of the difference and the strangeness wore off in a few days; perhaps if Ashurst had been its usual quiet self, it would have lasted longer, but there was so much to do, and so little appreciation of change in the mind of any one else, she almost forgot to notice it herself, but only knew that all the time, under all her sympathy with Ashurst joys and sorrows,—mostly sorrows, now,—was a deep, still current of thought flowing towards her husband.

Mrs. Dale had been the first one to come in, in the morning. They had scarcely finished breakfast when they heard her decided voice in the hall, reproving Sally for some careless sweeping. A little while ago, Lois would have resented this as interference; but she had too many real troubles now to take Mrs. Dale's meddling to heart.

"Well, Helen, my dear," she said, "I'm glad to see you." Mrs. Dale turned her cheek to her niece, under the impression that she was kissing her. "It is high time for you to be home again. You must keep this foolish child in order; she hardly eats or sleeps. I suppose you've sent to know how Arabella Forsythe is to-day, Lois?"

Lois looked anxious. "I thought she really was better last night, but she sent word this morning there was no change."

"Fudge!" cried Mrs. Dale. "I brought her round all right before that nurse came. She can't have killed her in this time. The fact is, brother, Arabella Forsythe isn't in any hurry to get well; she likes the excitement of frightening us all to death. I declare, Helen, she made her death-bed adieux six times over! I must say, nothing does show a person's position in this world so well as his manner of leaving it. You won't find poor William Denner making a fuss. He isn't Admiral Denner's great-grandson for nothing. Yes, Arabella Forsythe has talked about her soul, and made arrangements for her funeral, every day for a week. That's where her father's money made in buttons crops out!"

"But aunt Deely," Helen said, "isn't there any hope for Mr. Denner? Ashurst wouldn't be Ashurst without Mr. Denner!"

"No, not a bit," Mrs. Dale answered promptly. "I suppose you'll go and see him this morning, brother, and tell him?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Howe, sighing, "I suppose I must, but it does seem unnecessary to disturb him."

"He won't be disturbed," said Mrs. Dale stoutly; "he isn't that kind. There, now," she added, as Dr. Howe took up his hat and stick and went gloomily out into the sunshine, "I shouldn't wonder if your father left it to Gifford to break it to him, after all. It is curious how Archibald shrinks from it, and he a clergyman! I could do it, easily. Now, Lois, you run along; I want to talk to Helen."

But the rector had more strength of purpose than his sister thought. His keen eyes blurred once or twice in his walk to the village, and his lip almost trembled, but when he reached Mr. Denner's bedside he had a firm hand to give his friend. The doctor had left a note for him, saying the end was near, and he read this before he went into the sick-room.

Mr. Denner had failed very perceptibly since the day before. He looked strangely little in the great bed, and his brown eyes had grown large and bright. But he greeted the rector with courteous cordiality, under which his faint voice faltered, and almost broke.

"How are you to-day, Denner?" his friend said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and taking the sick man's hand in his big warm grasp.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Denner, with labored breath, "I am doing nicely."

"Has Giff been here this morning?" asked Dr. Howe.

"Yes," the lawyer answered. "He has gone home for an hour. Mary takes excellent care of me, and I felt I was really keeping him too much from his aunts. For his stay is limited, you know, and I am afraid I have been selfish in keeping him so much with me."

"No, no," the rector said, "it is a pleasure for him to be with you; it is a pleasure for any of us. Poor little Lois is dreadfully distressed about you,—she longs to come and nurse you herself; and Helen,—Helen came last night, you know,—she wants to be of some use, too."

"Oh, well, now, dear me," remonstrated Mr. Denner feebly, "Miss Lois must not have a moment's uneasiness about me,—not a moment's. Pray tell her I am doing nicely; and it is really of no consequence in the world,—not the slightest."

Then Mr. Denner began to speak of Gifford's kindness, and how good every one in the village had been to him; even Mary had softened wonderfully in the last few days, though of this the sick man did not speak, for it would seem to imply that Mary had not always been all she might be, and, in view of her present kindness, it would have been ungracious to draw attention to that.

"Yes," Mr. Denner ended, folding his little hands on the counterpane, "it is worth while to have had this indisposition (except for the trouble it has given others) just to see how good every one is. Gifford has been exceedingly kind and thoughtful. His gentleness—for I have been very troublesome, doctor—has been wonderful. Like a woman's; at least so I should imagine."

The rector had clasped his hands upon his stick, and was looking intently at Mr. Denner, his lower lip thrust out and his eyebrows gathered in an absent frown.

"William," he said suddenly, "you've seen the doctor this morning?"

"Yes," Mr. Denner answered, "oh, yes. He is very kind about getting here early; the nights seem quite long, and it is a relief to see him early."

"I have not seen him to-day," said Dr. Howe slowly, "but yesterday he made me feel very anxious about you. Yes, we were all quite anxious, William."

The lawyer gave a little start, and looked sharply at his old friend; then he said, hesitating slightly, "That—ah—that was yesterday, did I understand you to say?"

Dr. Howe leaned forward and took one of Mr. Denner's trembling little hands in his, which was strong and firm. "Yes," he said gently, "but, William, my dear old friend, I am anxious still. I cannot help—I cannot help fearing that—that"—

"Stay," interrupted Mr. Denner, with a visible effort at composure, "I—I quite understand. Pray spare yourself the pain of speaking of it, Archibald. You are very kind, but—I quite understand."

He put his hand before his eyes a moment, and then blindly stretched it out to his friend. The rector took it, and held it hard in his own. The two men were silent. Mr. Denner was the first to speak.

"It is very good in you to come and tell me, Archibald. I fear it has discomposed you; it was very painful for you. Pray do not allow yourself to feel the slightest annoyance; it is of no consequence, I—ah—assure you. But since we are on the subject, perhaps you will kindly mention—how—how soon?"

"I hope, I trust," answered the rector huskily, "it may not be for several days."

"But probably," said Mr. Denner calmly, "probably—sooner?"

Dr. Howe bowed his head.

"Ah—just so—just so. I—I thank you, Archibald."

Suddenly the rector drew a long breath, and straightened himself, as though he had forgotten something. "It must come to us all, sooner or later," he said gently, "and if we have lived well we need not dread it. Surely you need not, of all the men I have ever known."

"I have always endeavored," said Mr. Denner, in a voice which still trembled a little, "to remember that I was a gentleman."

Dr. Howe opened his lips and shut them again before he spoke. "I—I meant that the trust in God, William, of a Christian man, which is yours, must be your certain support now."

The lawyer looked up, with a faint surprise dawning in his eyes. "Ah—you are very good to say so, I'm sure," he replied courteously.

Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and re-clasping them upon the head of his stick. "Yes, William," he said, after a moment's silence, "that trust in God which leads us safely through all the dark places in life will not fail us at the end. The rod and the staff still comfort us."

"Ah—yes," responded Mr. Denner.

The rector gained confidence as he spoke. "And you must have that blessed assurance of the love of God, William," he continued; "your life has been so pure and good. You must see in this visitation not chastisement, but mercy."

Dr. Howe's hand moved slowly back to the big pocket in one of his black coat-tails, and brought out a small, shabby prayer-book.

"You will let me read the prayers for the sick," he continued gently, and without waiting for a reply began to say with more feeling than Dr. Howe often put into the reading of the service,—

"'Dearly beloved, know this, that Almighty God is the Lord of life and death, and of all things to them pertaining; as'"—

"Archibald," said Mr. Denner faintly, "you will excuse me, but this is not—not necessary, as it were."

Dr. Howe looked at him blankly, the prayer-book closing in his hand.

"I mean," Mr. Denner added, "if you will allow me to say so, the time for—for speaking thus has passed. It is now, with me, Archibald."

There was a wistful look in his eyes as he spoke.

"I know," answered Dr. Howe tenderly, thinking that the Visitation of the Sick must wait, "but God enters into now; the Eternal is our refuge, a very present help in time of trouble."

"Ah—yes"—said the sick man; "but I should like to approach this from our usual—point of view, if you will be so good. I have every respect for your office, but would it not be easier for us to speak of—of this as we have been in the habit of speaking on all subjects, quite—in our ordinary way, as it were? You will pardon me, Archibald, if I say anything else seems—ah—unreal?"

Dr. Howe rose and walked to the window. He stood there a few minutes, but the golden June day was dim, and there was a tightening in his throat that kept him silent. When he came back to the bedside, he stood, looking down at the sick man, without speaking. Mr. Denner was embarrassed.

"I did not mean to pain you," he said.

"William," the rector answered, "have I made religion so worthless? Have I held it so weakly that you feel that it cannot help you now?"

"Oh, not at all," responded Mr. Denner, "not at all. I have the greatest respect for it,—I fear I expressed myself awkwardly,—the greatest respect; I fully appreciate its value, I might say its necessity, in the community. But—but if you please, Archibald, since you have kindly come to tell me of this—change, I should like to speak of it in our ordinary way; to approach the subject as men of the world. It is in this manner, if you will be so good, I should like to ask you a question. I think we quite understand each other; it is unnecessary to be anything but—natural."

The clergyman took his place on the side of the bed, but he leaned his head on his hand, and his eyes were hidden. "Ask me anything you will. Yet, though I may not have lived it, William, I cannot answer you as anything but a Christian man now."

"Just so," said Mr. Denner politely—"ah—certainly; but, between ourselves, doctor, putting aside this amiable and pleasing view of the church, you understand,—speaking just as we are in the habit of doing,—what do you suppose—what do you think—is beyond?"

His voice had sunk to a whisper, and his eager eyes searched Dr. Howe's face.

"How can we tell?" answered the rector. "That it is infinitely good we can trust; 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard'"—He stopped, for Mr. Denner shook his head with a fine sort of impatience.

"If you please, doctor!"

The rector was silent.

"I have wondered about it often," the other continued. "I have expected—this, for some days, and I have wondered. Think how strange: in a few days—almost a few hours, I shall know all, or—nothing! Yes, the mystery of all the ages will be mine!" There was a thrill of triumph in his feeble voice. "Think of that, doctor. I shall know more than the wisest man that lives,—I! I was never a very clever person, never very wise; and yet, here is a knowledge which shall not be too wonderful for me, and to which I can attain."

He held up his little thin hand, peering at the light between the transparent fingers. "To think," he said slowly, with a puzzled smile, "to think that this is going to be still! It has never been any power in the world; I don't know that it has ever done any harm, yet it has certainly never done any good; but soon it will be still. How strange, how strange! And where shall I be? Knowing—or perhaps fallen on an eternal sleep. How does it seem to you, doctor? That was what I wanted to ask you; do you feel sure of anything—afterwards?"

The rector could not escape the penetrating gaze of those strangely bright brown eyes. He looked into them, and then wavered and turned away.

"Do you?" said the lawyer.

The other put his hands up to his face a moment.

"Ah!" he answered sharply, "I don't know—I can't tell. I—I don't know, Denner!"

"No," replied Mr. Denner, with tranquil satisfaction, "I supposed not,—I supposed not. But when a man gets where I am, it seems the one thing in the world worth being sure of."

Dr. Howe sat silently holding the lawyer's hand, and Mr. Denner seemed to sink into pleasant thought. Once he smiled, with that puzzled, happy look the rector had seen before, and then he closed his eyes contentedly as though to doze. Suddenly he turned his head and looked out of the window, across his garden, where a few old-fashioned flowers were blooming sparsely, with much space between them for the rich, soft grass, which seemed to hold the swinging shadows of an elm-tree in a lacy tangle.

"'The warm precincts of the cheerful day,'" he murmured, and then his eyes wandered about the room: the empty, blackened fireplace, where, on a charred log and a heap of gray ashes, a single bar of sunshine had fallen; his fiddle, lying on a heap of manuscript music; the one or two formal portraits of the women of his family; and the large painting of Admiral Denner in red coat and gold lace. On each one he lingered with a loving, wondering gaze. "'The place thereof shall know it'"—he began to say. "Ah, doctor, it is a wonderful book! How it does know the heart! The soul sees itself there. 'As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more'—no more. That is the wonder of it! How strange it is; and I had such plans for life, now! Well, it is better thus, no doubt,—no doubt."

After a while he touched the little oval velvet case which lay on the table beside him, and, taking it up, looked long and earnestly at the childish face inside the rim of blackened pearls.

"I wonder"—he said, and then stopped, laying it down again, with a little sigh. "Ah, well, I shall know. It is only to wait."

He did not seem to want any answer; it was enough to ramble on, filled with placid content, between dreams and waking, his hand held firm in that of his old friend. Afterwards, when Gifford came in, he scarcely noticed that the rector slipped away. It was enough to fill his mist of dreams with gentle wonderings and a quiet expectation. Once he said softly, "'In the hour of death, and in the day of judgment'"—

"'Good Lord, deliver us!'" Gifford finished gently.

Mr. Denner opened his eyes and looked at him. "Good Lord," he said, "ah—yes—yes—that is enough, my friend. Good Lord; one leaves the rest."

Dr. Howe walked home with a strange look on his face. He answered his daughter briefly, that Mr. Denner was failing, and then, going into his library, he moved a table from in front of the door, which always stood hospitably open, and shut and locked it.

"What's the matter with the doctor?" asked Dick Forsythe, lounging up to the rectory porch, his hands in his pockets and his hat on the back of his head. "I walked behind him all the way from the village; he looked, as though some awful thing had happened, and he walked as if he was possessed."

"Oh, Mr. Denner's worse," Lois answered tearfully.

Mr. Forsythe had found her on the porch, and, in spite of her grief, she looked nervously about for some one to save her from a tete-a-tete.

Dick seemed as anxious as she. "No, I won't sit down, thank you. Mother just wanted to know if you'd run in this afternoon a few minutes," and any one less frightened than Lois must have seen that he wished his mother had chosen another messenger.

"Is she—is she pretty comfortable?" the girl said, pulling a rose to pieces, and looking into the cool, dark hall for a third person; but there was only Max, lying fast asleep under the slender-legged table, which held a blue bowl full of peonies, rose, and white, and deep glowing red.

Dick also glanced towards the door. "Oh, yes, she'll be all right. Ah—unfortunately, I can't stay very long in Ashurst, but she'll be all right, I'm sure. You'll cheer her up when I'm gone, Miss Howe?"

Lois felt herself grow white. A sudden flash of hope came into her mind, and then fear. What did it mean? Was he going because he dared not ask her, or would his mother tell him that he would surely succeed? Oh, her promise!

Her breath came quick, and Mr. Forsythe saw it, "Yes," he said, stammering with embarrassment, "I—I fear I shall have to go—ah—important business."

Just then both these unhappy young people caught sight of Helen coming serenely across the lawn.

"There's my cousin," said Lois; "let us go and meet her."

"Oh, yes, do!" Dick answered fervently; and presently greeted Helen with a warmth which made her give Lois a quick, questioning look from under her straight brows, and sent her thoughts with a flash of sympathy to Gifford Woodhouse.

When the young man had gone, Helen said to her cousin, "Lois, dear—?"

But Lois only threw herself into her arms with such floods of tears Helen could do nothing but try to calm her.

Lois was not the only one who heard of Dick's plan of leaving Ashurst with mingled joy and dread. Gifford knew that Mr. Forsythe was going away, and seeing the distress in Lois's face, in these sad days, he put it down to grief at his departure. It was easier to give himself this pain than to reflect that Lois was trembling with anxiety about Mr. Denner, and was still full of alarm for Mrs. Forsythe.

"If that puppy neglects her," he thought, "if she cares for him, and if he grieves her, I vow I'll have a word to say to him! Now why should she cry, if it isn't because he's going away?"

Though he was glad Ashurst would see the last of this objectionable young man, Lois's grief turned his gladness into pain, and there was no hope for himself in his relief at Dick's departure. Miss Deborah, with the best intentions in the world, had made that impossible.

The day after Dr. Howe had told Mr. Denner that he must die, Gifford had come home for a few minutes. He had met the little ladies walking arm in arm up and down one of the shady paths of their walled garden. Miss Ruth still held her trowel in her hand, and her shabby gloves were stained by the weeds she had pulled up.

"Oh, there you are, dear Giff," she cried; "we were just looking for you. Pray, how is Mr. Denner?"

Gifford's serious face answered her without words, and none of the group spoke for a moment. Then Gifford said, "It cannot last much longer. You see, he suffers very much at night; it doesn't seem as though he could live through another."

"Oh, dear me," said Miss Ruth, wiping her eyes with the frankest grief, "you don't say so!"

"Haven't you just heard him say so, sister?" asked Miss Deborah, trying to conceal an unsteady lip by a show of irritation. "Do pay attention."

"I did, dear Deborah," returned Miss Ruth, "but I cannot bear to believe it."

"Your believing it, or not, doesn't alter the case unfortunately. Did he like the syllabub yesterday, Gifford?"

"He couldn't eat it," her nephew answered, "but Willie seemed to enjoy it."

"Poor child," cried Miss Deborah, full of sympathy, "I'm glad he had anything to comfort him. But Gifford, do you really feel sure Mr. Denner cannot recover?"

"Too sure," replied the young man, with a sigh.

"There's no doubt about it,—no doubt whatever?" Miss Ruth inquired anxiously.

Her nephew looked at her in surprise. "I wish there were."

"Well, then, sister?" said Miss Ruth.

Miss Deborah nodded and sighed. "I—I think so," she answered, and the two sisters turned to go into the house, importance and grief on both their faces; but Miss Deborah suddenly recollected something she wished to say.

"Do you know, Gifford," she said, letting Miss Ruth get a little ahead of her, "I really think that that young Forsythe is without proper feeling; and I am surprised at dear Lois, too. I cannot say—I am not at liberty to say anything more, but at such a time"—

Gifford gave her a quick look. "What do you mean, aunt Deborah?"

But his aunt seemed reluctant to speak, and looked after Miss Ruth, who was walking slowly up the mossy path, flecked here and there by patches of sunshine that fell through the flickering leaves above her. When she was quite out of hearing, Miss Deborah said mysteriously,—

"Well, perhaps; I might tell you; you are not like any one else. Ruth thinks I cannot keep a secret, but then you know your dear aunt Ruth does not discriminate. You are quite different from the public."

"Well, and what is it?" he said impatiently, and with a horrible foreboding.

"Why, it is settled," answered Miss Deborah; "it is all settled between Lois and young Forsythe. Arabella Forsythe told Adele Dale, and Adele Dale told me; quite privately, of course. It wasn't to be mentioned to any one; but it was only natural to speak of it to dear Ruth and to you."

Gifford did not wait to hear more. "I must go," he said hurriedly. "I must get back to Mr. Denner," and he was off.

"Oh, dear Giff!" cried Miss Deborah; taking little mincing steps as she tried to run after him. "You won't mention it? You won't speak of it to any one, or say I—I"—

"No!" he called back,—"no, of course not."

"Not even to your aunt Ruth would be best!" But he did not hear her, and Miss Deborah went back to the house, annoyed at Gifford, because of her own indiscretion.

Miss Ruth had gone to her own bedroom, and some time after Miss Deborah had disappeared in hers, the younger sister emerged, ready to go to Mr. Denner's.

Miss Ruth had dressed with great care, yet with a proper sense of fitness, considering the occasion. She wore a soft, old-fashioned lawn with small bunches of purple flowers scattered over it, and gathered very full about the waist. But, before the swinging mirror of her high bureau, she thought it looked too light and bright for so sad a visit, and so trotted up-stairs to the garret, and, standing on tiptoe by a great chest of drawers, opened one with much care, that the brass rings might not clatter on the oval plates under them, and disturb Miss Deborah. The drawer was sweet with lavender and sweet clover, and, as she lifted from its wrappings of silvered paper a fine black lace shawl, some pale, brittle rose-leaves fell out upon the floor. That shawl, thrown about her shoulders, subdued her dress, she thought; and the wide-brimmed black hat of fine Neapolitan straw, tied with soft black ribbons beneath her little round chin, completed the look of half mourning.

Miss Deborah answered her sister's knock at her bedroom door in person. She was not dressed to make calls, for she wore a short gown over her red flannel petticoat, and on her feet were large and comfortable list slippers. Miss Deborah's eyes were red, and she sniffed once, suspiciously.

"Why, Ruth Woodhouse!" she cried. "Have you no sense? Don't, for pity's sake, dress as though you had gone into mourning for the man, when he's alive. And it is very forward of you, too, for if either of us did it (being such old friends), it should be I, for I am nearer his age."

But Miss Ruth did not stop for discussion. "Are you not going?" she said.

"No," Miss Deborah answered, "we'd better go to-morrow. You might just inquire of Mary, this afternoon, but we will call to-morrow. It is more becoming to put it off as long as possible."

Miss Ruth had her own views, and she consented with but slight demur, and left Miss Deborah to spend the rest of the afternoon in a big chair by the open window, with Baxter's "Saints' Rest" upon her knee.

When Gifford had gone back to the lawyer's house, he found the little gentleman somewhat brighter. Mary had put a clean white counterpane on the bed, and buttoned a fresh valance around it; and on the small table at his side Willie had placed a big bunch of gillyflowers and lupins, with perhaps less thought of beauty than of love.

"Gifford," he said, "I am glad to see you. And how, if you please, did you leave your aunt? I hope you conveyed to her my thanks for her thoughtfulness, and my apologies for detaining you as well?"

"Yes, sir," the young man answered, "I did. They are both rejoiced that I can be of any service."

Gifford had come to the side of the bed, and, slipping his strong young arm under Mr. Denner's head, lifted him that he might take with greater ease the medicine he held in a little slender-stemmed glass. "Ah," said Mr. Denner, between a sigh and a groan, as Gifford laid him down again, "how gentle you are! There is a look in your face, sometimes, of one of your aunts, sir; not, I think, Miss Deborah. I have thought much, since I—I knew my condition, Gifford, of my wish that your aunt Deborah should have the miniature of my little sister. I still wish it. It is not easy for me to decide a momentous question, but, having decided, I am apt to be firm. Perhaps—unreasonably firm. I would not have you imagine I had, in any way, changed my mind, as it were—yet I have recurred, occasionally, in my thoughts, to Miss Ruth. I should not wish to seem to slight Miss Ruth, Gifford?"

"She could not feel it so, I know," the young man answered.

But Mr. Denner's thoughts apparently dwelt upon it, for twice again, in intervals of those waking dreams, or snatches of sleep, he said, quite to himself, "It is decided; yet it would seem marked to pass over Miss Ruth." And again he murmured, "I should not wish to slight Miss Deborah's sister."

Later in the afternoon he wakened, with a bright, clear look in his face. "It occurs to me," he said, "that I have another portrait, of no value at all compared with the miniature (and of course it is becoming that the miniature should go to Miss Deborah), which I might give to Miss Ruth. Because she is the sister of Miss Deborah, you understand, Gifford. Perhaps you will be so good as to hand me the square package from that same little drawer? Here is the key."

Gifford brought it: it was a daguerreotype case, much worn and frayed along the leather back, and without the little brass hooks which used to fasten it; instead, a bit of ribbon had been tied about it to keep it closed. Mr. Denner did not open it; he patted the faded green bow with his little thin fingers.

"It is a portrait of myself," he said. "It belonged to my mother. I had it taken for her when I was but a boy; yes, I was only thirty. She tied the ribbon; it has never been opened since."

He put it down on the stand, by the miniature, under the gillies and lupins.

So it happened that when Miss Ruth Woodhouse came to inquire for him, she had been in Mr. Denner's thoughts all the afternoon. "Not," he kept assuring himself, "not that I have changed my mind,—not at all,—but she is Miss Deborah's sister."

It was after five when Mary pushed the library door open softly, and looked in, and then beckoned mysteriously to Gifford.

"It is your aunt; she wants to know how he is. You'd better come and tell her."

Mr. Denner heard her, and turned his head feebly towards the door. "Miss Woodhouse, did you say, Mary? Which Miss Woodhouse, if you please?"

"It's the young one," said Mary, who spoke relatively.

"Miss Ruth?" Mr. Denner said, with an eager quaver in his voice. "Gifford, do you think—would you have any objection, Gifford, to permitting me to see your aunt? That is, if she would be so obliging and kind as to step in for a moment?"

"She will be glad to, I know," Gifford answered. "Let me go and bring her."

Miss Ruth was in a flutter of grief and excitement. "I'll come, of course. I—I had rather hoped I might see him; but what will Deborah say? Yet I can't but think it's better for him not to see two people at once."

Mr. Denner greeted her by a feeble flourish of his hand. "Oh, dear me, Mr. Denner," said she, half crying, in spite of Gifford's whispered caution, "I'm so distressed to see you so ill, indeed I am."

"Oh, not at all," responded Mr. Denner, but his voice had a strange, far-away sound in his ears, and he tried to speak louder and more confidently,—"not at all. You are very good to come, ma'am;" and then he stopped to remember what it was he had wished to say.

Miss Ruth was awed into silence, and there was a growing anxiety in Gifford's face.

"Ah—yes"—Mr. Denner began again, with a flash of strength in his tone, "I wished to ask you if you would accept—accept"—he reached towards the little table, but he could not find the leather case until Gifford put it into his hand—"if you would be so good as to accept this; and will you open it, if you please, Miss Ruth?"

She did so, with trembling fingers. It was a daguerreotype of Mr. Denner; the high neckcloth and the short-waisted, brass-buttoned coat and waistcoat showed its age, as well as the dimness of the glass and the fresh boyish face of the young man of thirty.

"What—what was I speaking of, Gifford?" said Mr. Denner.

"You gave my aunt Ruth the picture, sir."

"Oh, yes, just so, just so. I merely wished to add that I desired to present it to Miss Deborah's sister,—though it is of no value, not the least value; but I should be honored by its acceptance. And perhaps you will be good enough to—to convey the assurance of my esteem to Miss Deborah. And Gifford—my friend Gifford is to give her the miniature of my little sister."

"Yes," said Miss Ruth, who was crying softly.

"Not that I have—have changed my mind," said Mr. Denner, "but it is not improper, I am sure, that Miss Deborah's sister should give me—if she will be so good—her hand, that I may say good-by?"

Miss Ruth did not quite understand, until Gifford motioned to her to lay her little hand in that feeble one which was groping blindly towards her.

Mr. Denner's eyes were very dim.

"I—I am very happy," he murmured. "I thank you, Ruth;" and then, a moment after, "If you will excuse me, I think I will rest for a few moments."

Still holding Miss Ruth's hand, he turned his head in a weary way towards the light, and softly closed his eyes.

Mr. Denner rested.



CHAPTER XXIV.

Perhaps the majesty of Death is better understood when some little soul is swallowed up in the great Mystery than when one is taken on whom Life has laid her bright touch, and made famous and necessary.

Even in quiet Ashurst, Mr. Denner was, as he himself would have, said, of no consequence, and his living was not felt in any way; yet when he was gone, a sudden knowledge came of how much he was to them, and how great a blank he left. So Death creates greatness.

It was well for Lois Howe, in those first sad days, that her cousin was with her, or the reaction from the excitement of anxiety into hopeless grief might have been even more prostrating than it was. All the comfort and tenderness Helen could give her in her helpless self-reproach were hers, though she as well as Gifford never sought to make the sorrow less by evading the truth. But Helen was troubled about her, and said to Dr. Howe, "Lois must come to see me for a while; she does need a change very much. I'm afraid she won't be able to go with me next week, but can't she come as soon as she is strong enough to travel?"

And so it was decided that she should come with Gifford, who would go back to Lockhaven in about a fortnight. Business, which never reached Mr. Denner in Mercer, had been offered the young lawyer, and he had been willing to stay in Ashurst a little longer, though he had told himself he was a fool.

Lois looked forward to the visit with feverish anxiety. Mr. Forsythe, perhaps to please his mother, but certainly with rather an ill grace, had lingered in Ashurst. But he had not been very much at the rectory; perhaps because it was not a time to make visits, or be careless and light-hearted, while little Mr. Denner was fading out of life, and his mother felt herself trembling on the edge of the grave. This, at least, was what Mrs. Forsythe said to Lois more than once, with an anxious, troubled look, which perhaps explained more than her words did.

She had accepted very complacently Lois's protestations of joy and gratitude that she was no longer, as she expressed it, in immediate danger, but she did not apparently feel that that altered at all the conditions of the promise Lois had given her, which was evidently a very precious thing. Nor did Lois remonstrate against being held by it. She felt she deserved any grief that came to her, and it would have been cowardly, she thought, to shrink from what she had undertaken merely because she had been so far mercifully spared the grief of Mrs. Forsythe's death. And who could tell that she would live, even yet? Certainly Mrs. Forsythe herself seemed to consider her recovery a matter of grave doubt, and Lois's anxieties were quick to agree with her.

So she went about with a white face and eyes from which all the careless gayety had gone, simply bearing her life with a dull pain and in constant fear. Gifford saw it, and misunderstood it; he thought, in view of what Miss Deborah had told him and what he knew of Mr. Forsythe's plans, that it was natural for Lois to look unhappy. Anxieties are very misleading; the simple explanation of remorse for her carelessness did not come into Gifford's mind at all.

One afternoon,—it was the day following Mr. Denner's funeral,—Gifford thought this all over, and tried to see what his life offered him for the future, now that the last faint hope of winning Lois's love had died. Mr. Denner's will had been read that morning in his dining-room, with only Dr. Howe and Mary and Willie present, while the rain beat persistently against the windows, and made the room so dark that Gifford had to call for a candle, and hold the paper close to his eyes to see to read. Willie had shivered, and looked steadfastly under the table, thinking, while his little heart beat suffocatingly, that he was glad there were no prayers after a will. When that was over, and Dr. Howe had carried Willie back with him to be cheered and comforted at the rectory, Gifford had devoted himself to disposing of such small effects as Mr. Denner had left as personal bequests.

They were not very many. A certain bamboo rod with silver mountings and a tarnished silver reel, were for Dr. Howe; and there were a few books to be sent to Mr. Dale, and six bottles of Tokay, '52, for Colonel Drayton. There was a mourning-ring, which had been Mr. Denner's father's, for a distant cousin, who was further comforted by a few hundred dollars, but all the rest was for Willie.

Gifford had felt, as he sat at Mr. Denner's writing-desk and touched some small possessions, all the pathetic powerlessness of the dead. How Mr. Denner had treasured his little valueless belongings! There was a pair of silver shoe-buckles, wrapped in chamois skin, which the little gentleman had faithfully kept bright and shining; they had belonged to his grandfather, and Mr. Denner could remember when they had been worn, and the knee-breeches, and the great bunch of seals at the fob. Perhaps, when his little twinkling brown eyes looked at them, he felt again the thrill of love and fear for the stately gentleman who had awed his boyhood. There was a lock of faded gray hair in a yellow old envelope, on which was written, in the lawyer's precise hand, "My mother's hair," and a date which seemed to Gifford very far back. There were one or two relics of the little sister: a small green morocco shoe, which had buttoned about her ankle, and a pair of gold shoulder-straps, and a narrow pink ribbon sash that had grown yellow on the outside fold.

There was a pile of neatly kept diaries, with faithful accounts of the weather, and his fishing excursions, and the whist parties; scarcely more than this, except a brief mention of a marriage or a death. Of course there were letters; not very many, but all neatly labeled with the writer's name and the date of their arrival. These Gifford burned, and the blackened ashes were in the wide fireplace, behind a jug of flowers, on which he could hear, down the chimney, the occasional splash of a raindrop. There was one package of letters where the name was "Gertrude;" there were but few of these, and, had Gifford looked, he would have seen that the last one, blistered with tears, said that her father had forbidden further correspondence, and bade him, with the old epistolary formality from which not even love could escape, "an eternal farewell." But the tear-stains told more than the words, at least of Mr. Denner's heart, if not of pretty sixteen-year-old Gertrude's. These were among the first to be burned; yet how Mr. Denner had loved them, even though Gertrude, running away with her dancing-master, and becoming the mother of a family of boys, had been dead these twenty years, and the proverb had pointed to Miss Deborah Woodhouse!

Some papers had to be sealed, and the few pieces of silver packed, ready to be sent to the bank in Mercer, and then Gifford had done.

He was in the library, from which the bed had been moved, and which was in trim and dreary order. The rain still beat fitfully upon the windows, and the room was quite dark. Gifford had pushed the writing-desk up to the window for the last ray of light, and now he sat there, the papers all arranged and nothing more to do, yet a vague, tender loyalty to the little dead gentleman keeping him. And sitting, leaning his elbows on the almost unspotted sheet of blue blotting-paper which covered the open flap of the desk, he fell into troubled thinking.

"Of course," he said to himself, "she's awfully distressed about Mr. Denner, but there's something more than that. She seems to be watching for something all the time; expecting that fellow, beyond a doubt. And why he is not there oftener Heaven only knows! And to think of his going off on his confounded business at such a time, when she is in such trouble! If only for a week, he has no right to go and leave her. His business is to stay and comfort her. Then, when he is at the rectory, what makes him pay her so little attention? If he wasn't a born cad, somebody ought to thrash him for his rudeness. If Lois had a brother!—But I suppose he does not know any better, and then Lois loves him. Where's Helen's theory now, I wonder? Oh, I suppose she thinks he is all right. I'd like to ask her, if I hadn't promised aunt Deborah."

Just here, Gifford heard the garden gate close with a bang, and some one came down the path, holding an umbrella against the pelting rain, so that his face was hidden. But Gifford knew who it was, even before Mary, shuffling asthmatically through the hall, opened the door to say, "Mr. Forsythe's here to see you."

"Ask him to come in," he said, pushing his chair back from the secretary, and lifting the flap to lock it as he spoke.

Dick Forsythe came in, shaking his dripping umbrella, and saying with a good-natured laugh, "Jove! what a wet day! You need a boat to get through the garden. Your aunt—the old one, I think it was—asked me, if I was passing, to bring you these overshoes. She was afraid you had none, and would take cold."

He laughed again, as though he knew how amusing such nonsense was, and then had a gleam of surprise at Gifford's gravity.

"I'd gone to her house with a message from my mother," he continued; "you know we get off to-morrow. Mother's decided to go, too, so of course there are a good many things to do, and the old lady is so strict about Ashurst customs I've had to go round and 'return thanks' to everybody."

Gifford had taken the parcel from Dick's hand, and thanked him briefly. The young man, however, seemed in no haste to go.

"I don't know which is damper, this room or out-of-doors," he said, seating himself in Mr. Denner's big chair,—though Gifford was standing—and looking about in an interested way; "must have been a gloomy house to live in. Wonder he never got married. Perhaps he couldn't find anybody willing to stay in such a hole,—it's so confoundedly damp. He died in here, didn't he?" This was in a lower voice.

"Yes," Gifford answered.

"Shouldn't think you'd stay alone," Dick went on; "it is awfully dismal. I see he cheered himself once in a while." He pointed to a tray, which held a varied collection of pipes and a dingy tobacco pouch of buckskin with a border of colored porcupine quills.

"Yes, Mr. Denner smoked," Gifford was constrained to say.

"I think," said Dick, clapping his hand upon his breast-pocket, "I'll have a cigar myself. It braces one up this weather." He struck a match on the sole of his boot, forgetting it was wet, and vowing good-naturedly that he was an ass. "No objection, I suppose?" he added, carefully biting off the end of his cigar.

"I should prefer," Gifford replied slowly, "that you did not smoke. There is an impropriety about it, which surely you must appreciate."

Dick looked at him, with the lighted match flaring bluely between his fingers. "Lord!" he said, "how many things are improper in Ashurst! But just as you say, of course." He put his cigar back in an elaborate case, and blew out the match, throwing it into the fireplace, among the flowers. "The old gentleman smoked himself, though."

Gifford's face flushed slowly, and he spoke with even more deliberation than usual. "Since you have decided not to smoke, you must not let me detain you. I am very much obliged for the package."

"You're welcome, I'm sure," Dick said. "Yes, I suppose I'd better be getting along. Well, I'll say good-by, Mr. Woodhouse. I suppose I sha'n't see you before I go? And Heaven knows when I'll be in Ashurst again!"

Gifford started. "Sit down a moment," he said, waving aside Dick's hand. "Surely you are not leaving Ashurst for any length of time?"

"Length of time?" answered the other, laughing. "Well, I rather think so. I expect to go abroad next month."

A curious desire came into Gifford Woodhouse's strong hands to take this boy by the throat, and shake him until his ceaseless smile was torn to pieces. Instead of that, however, he folded his arms, and stood looking down at his companion in silence.

Dick had seated himself again, and was twirling his wet umbrella round and round by the shiny end of one of the ribs. "Yes," he said, "this is a long good-by to Ashurst."

"Mr. Forsythe," said Gifford, with an edge of anger in his voice which could not have escaped even a more indifferent ear than Dick's, "may I ask if Dr. Howe knows of your plans?"

Dick looked up, with a sudden ugly shadow coming across the sunny brightness of his face. "I don't know what I've done to deserve this concern on your part, Mr. Woodhouse; but, since you ask, I have no objection to saying that Dr. Howe does not particularly interest himself in my affairs. I don't know whether he's aware of my plans, and I care less."

He rose, and stood grasping his wet umbrella mid-ways, looking defiantly into Gifford's face. It was singular how instantly, in some wordless way, he appreciated that he had been blamed.

Gifford began to speak in the slow, measured tone which showed how he was guarding his words. "You may not care for his interest," he said, "but you can scarcely expect that he would not notice your absence."

"I cannot see that my movements are of so much importance to Dr. Howe," Dick answered, "and he certainly has never taken it upon himself to meddle in my affairs to the extent of asking me about them."

"Nevertheless," said Gifford, with ominous gentleness, "he must feel—surprise at your departure. That your business should take you away at this time, Mr. Forsythe, is unfortunate."

"I know my business, at least," cried the other loudly, his voice trembling with anger, "and I'm capable of attending to it without suggestions from you! I'll trouble you to speak plainly, instead of hinting. What right have you to question my leaving Ashurst?"

"No right," Gifford said calmly.

"Why don't you speak out like a man?" Forsythe demanded with a burst of rage, striking the table with his fist. "What do you mean by your damned impudence? So you dare to question my conduct to Lois Howe, do you?—you confounded prig!"

"Be silent!" Gifford said between his teeth. "Gentlemen do not introduce the name of a woman into their discussions. You forgot yourself. It is unnecessary to pursue this subject. I have nothing more to say."

"But I have more to say. Who gave you the right to speak to me? The lady herself? She must be indeed distressed to choose you for a messenger."

Gifford did not answer; for a moment the dark room was very still, except for the beating rain and the tapping of the ivy at the south window.

"Or perhaps," he went on, a sneer curling his handsome mouth, "you will comfort her yourself, instead? Well, you're welcome."

Gifford's hands clenched on the back of the chair in front of him. "Sir," he said, "this place protects you, and you know it."

But Dick Forsythe was beside himself with anger. He laughed insultingly. "I'll not detain you any longer. Doubtless you will wish to go to the rectory to-night. But I'm afraid, even though I'm obliging enough to leave Ashurst, you will have no"—He did not finish his sentence. Gifford Woodhouse's hand closed like a vise upon his collar. There were no words. Dick's struggles were as useless as beating against a rock; his maddest efforts could not shake off that relentless hand. Gifford half pushed, half carried, him to the door, and in another moment Dick Forsythe found himself flung like a snapping cur in the mud and rain of Mr. Denner's garden.

He gathered himself up, and saw Gifford standing in the doorway, as though to offer him a chance of revenge.

"Damn you!" he screamed, furious with passion. "I'll pay you for this! I—I"—He choked with rage, and shook his fist at the motionless figure on the steps. Then, trembling with impotent fury, oaths stumbling upon his lips, he turned and rushed into the gathering darkness.

Gifford watched him, and then the door swung shut, and he went back to Mr. Denner's library. His breath was short, and he was tingling with passion, but he had no glow of triumph. "I've been a fool," he said,—"I've been a fool! I've made it worse for her. The hound!"

But in spite of his genuine contrition, there was a subtile joy. "He does not love her," he thought, "and she will forget him."

Yet, as he sat there in Mr. Denner's dark library, filled with remorse and unabated rage as well, he began to realize that he had been meddlesome; and he was stung with a sudden sense that it was not honorable to have pushed his questions upon Forsythe. Gifford's relentless justice overtook him. Had he not given Forsythe the right to insult him? Would not he have protected himself against any man's prying? Gifford blushed hotly in the darkness. "But not to use Lois's name,—not that! Nothing could justify the insult to her!"

Mary came in to lock up, and started with fright at the sight of the dark, still figure. "Lord! it's a ghost!" she cried shrilly.

"I am here, Mary," he said wearily. "I'm going home now."

And so he did, walking doggedly through the storm, with his head bent and his hands in his pockets, forgetful of Miss Deborah's thoughtfulness in the way of rubbers, and only anxious to avoid any kindly interruption from his aunts, which their anxiety concerning damp clothes might occasion. But he could not escape them. Miss Deborah met him at the door with a worried face. "My dear boy!" she said, "no umbrella? Pray go to bed directly, and let me bring you a hot drink. You will surely have a cough to-morrow." But the little lady came back to the parlor with an aggrieved face, for he had answered her with quiet determination not to be fussed over. The sisters heard him walk quickly up-stairs and lock his door. They looked at each other in astonishment.

"He feels it very much," said Miss Ruth.

"Yes," returned Miss Deborah; "he has been sorting the papers all the afternoon. I must go and see Willie to-morrow."

"Oh, I'll do that," Miss Ruth answered. "I cannot help feeling that it is—my place."

"Not at all," replied Miss Deborah firmly; "the miniature shows plainly his sentiments towards me. I know he would wish me to look after Willie. Indeed, I feel it a sacred duty."

Miss Deborah moved her hands nervously. Mr. Denner's death was too recent for it to be possible to speak of him without agitation.

"Well," said Miss Ruth, "perhaps, after all, you are right, in a way. The miniature is childish. Of course a portrait of himself has a far deeper meaning."

"Ruth Woodhouse," cried the other, "I'm ashamed of you! Didn't you tell me yourself he said it was of no value? And you know how much he thought of the little sister!"

"But that was his modesty," said Miss Ruth eagerly. However, both ladies parted for the night with unaltered convictions, and the younger sister, opening the daguerreotype for one last look by her bedroom candle, murmured to herself, "I wonder what Deborah would think if she knew he said 'Ruth'?"

The Forsythes went away the next morning. Perhaps it was the early start which prevented Dick from seeing Gifford again, and finishing the so summarily ended quarrel, or possibly it was recollection of the weight of Gifford Woodhouse's hand. Yet he thought he had found a means of revenge.

In spite of the rain, he had gone to the rectory. Helen was writing to her husband, and Dr. Howe was reading. "You'll have to see him in the parlor, Lois," her father said, looking at her over his paper, as Sally announced Mr. Forsythe.

"Oh, father!" she said.

"Nonsense," replied the rector impatiently, "you know him well enough to receive him alone. I can't be interrupted. Run along, child."

"Will you come in, Helen, dear?" she pleaded.

"Yes," Helen said, glancing at her with absent eyes; it was hard to leave the intricacies of a theological argument to think of a girl's lover. "I'll come soon."

But in a letter to John she forgot every one else, and when Lois went tremblingly out of the room both the rector and his niece lost themselves in their own interests.

"Good-evening, Miss Lois," Dick said, coming towards her with extended hand.

She could hardly hear her answer for her beating heart.

"I came to say good-by," he went on, his bright blue eyes fastened angrily upon her; but she did not see him.

"You go to-morrow?" she faltered.

"Yes," he answered; "but I could not leave Ashurst without—one more look at the rectory."

Lois did not speak. Oh, why did not Helen come?

"A different scene this from that night after the dinner party," Dick thought, looking at her downcast eyes and trembling hands with cruel exultation in his face, "If I cared!"

"How I have adored Ashurst!" he said slowly, wondering how far it would be safe to go. "I have been very happy here. I hope I shall be still happier, Lois?"

Still she did not answer, but she pressed her hands hard together. Dick looked at her critically.

"When I come again,—oh, when I come again,—then, if you have not forgotten me—Tell me you will not forget me, until I come again?"

Lois shook her head. Dick had drawn her to a seat, and his eager face was close to hers.

"I said good-by to the rector this afternoon," he said, "but I felt I must see you again, alone."

Lois was silent.

"I wonder if you know," he went on, "how often I shall think of Ashurst, and of you?"

He had possessed himself of her hand, which was cold and rigid, but lay passively in his. She had turned her face away from him, and in a stunned, helpless way was waiting for the question which seemed on his lips. "And you know what my thoughts will be," he said meaningly. "You make Ashurst beautiful."

He saw the color, which had rushed to her face when he had begun to talk, fade slowly; even her lips were white. But she never looked at him.

"You were not always kind to me," he continued, "but when I come back"—

She turned with a sudden impulse toward him, her breath quick and her lips unsteady. "Mr. Forsythe," she said, "I"—

But he had risen. "I suppose I must go," he said in his natural voice, from which sentiment had fled, and left even a suggestion of alarm. "It is late, and mother may need something,—you know she's always needing something. We never can forget your kindness, Miss Lois. Good-by,—good-by!"

Though he lingered on that last word and pressed her hand, he had gone in another moment. Lois stood breathless. She put her hands up to her head, as though to quiet the confusion of her thoughts. What did it mean? Was it only to let her see that he still loved her? Was he coming again?

When Helen, remembering her duties, came into the parlor, it was deserted, and Lois was facing her misery and fright in her own room, while Dick Forsythe, raging homeward through the rain, was saying to himself, "I've put an end to your prospects! She'll wait for me, if it is six years. It is just as well she doesn't know I'm going abroad. I'll tell mother not to mention it. Mother was right when she said I could have her for the asking!"



CHAPTER XXV.

Helen's desire to get back to John made her decide to start on Monday, instead of waiting until Wednesday, when the fortnight she had planned for her visit ended.

"I must go," she said, smiling at Dr. Howe's railings. "I cannot stay away from home any longer. And you'll come soon, Lois, dear!"

Even daily letters from John had not saved her from homesickness. They were a comfort, even though they were filled with pleadings and prayers that, for her soul's sake, she would see the error of her belief. Such tenderness struggled through the pages of argument, Helen would lay her cheek against them, and say softly, "I'll come home to you soon, dear."

One of these last letters had entreated her to write immediately upon its receipt, and answer it point by point. She did so, saying at the last, "Now let us drop the whole subject. I will never, as long as I have reason, believe this terrible doctrine,—never. So why need we ever speak of it again? I know it is your fear of eternity which leads you to try to make me believe it, but, dearest, if eternity depends on this, it is already settled; let us just be glad together while we can, in this beautiful time. Oh, I shall soon be home; I can think of nothing else."

And she counted the hours until she could start. When the morning came, with its clear June sky, and great white clouds lying dreamily behind the hills, her face was running over with gladness, in spite of her sympathy for Lois's grief.

"How happy you look!" Lois said wistfully, as she sat watching Helen put on her bonnet before the swinging mirror in its white and gold frame, on her dressing-table.

Helen had not known how her eyes were smiling, and she looked with quick compunction at Lois's white face. "I shall see John so soon," she answered contritely. "I can't help it."

"I shall miss you awfully," Lois went on, leaning her forehead against the edge of the bureau, and knotting the long linen fringe of the cover with nervous little fingers.

"But think how soon I'll have you in Lockhaven, dear; and you will be a little stronger then, and happier, too," Helen said, brightly.

For Lois was so worn and tired that a less active person would have called herself ill; as it was, she was not able to bear the long ride to Mercer and back, and Helen was to go alone, for Dr. Howe had to go out of Ashurst a little way, to perform a marriage ceremony.

"You'll have rain before the day is over, my dear," he said, as he put her into the carriage, "and that will make it better traveling, no dust. It's a shame that I should have to go in the other direction. Why couldn't those people get married to-morrow instead of to-day, I should like to know? Or why couldn't you stay twenty-four hours longer? Could not stand it to be away from home another minute! Well, well, that's right,—that's the way it should be. Hope Ward is as anxious to get you back as you are to run off and leave us; perhaps he doesn't want you, young lady." The rector laughed at Helen's confident look. "I don't half like your going to Mercer by yourself," he added.

"Oh, I shall get along very well," said Helen cheerily. "I have no doubt there'll be a letter for me from John at the post-office, and I will get it as we go through the village. I'll have that to read."

"It will hardly last all the way to Lockhaven," Lois commented.

"Oh, yes, it will," answered Helen, with a ripple of joy in her tone, which, for pure gladness, was almost laughter. "You don't know, Lois!"

Lois smiled drearily; she was sitting on the steps, her arms crossed listlessly on her knees, and her eyes fixed in an absent gaze on the garden.

"Here's Giff," Helen continued, arranging her traveling-bag and some books on the opposite seat of the carriage. "I shall just have time to say good-by to him."

"That is what I came for," Gifford said, as he took her hand a moment. "I will bring Lois safely to you in a fortnight."

Mrs. Dale was on the porch, and Sally and Jean stood smiling in the doorway; so, followed by hearty good-bys and blessings, with her hands full of flowers, and the sunshine resting on her happy face and glinting through her brown hair, Helen drove away.

Mr. Dale was at the post-office, and came out to hand her the letter she expected.

"So you're off?" he said, resting his hand on the carriage door, and looking at her with a pleasant smile. "You've made me think of the starling, this last week,—you remember the starling in the Bastile? 'I can't get out,' says the starling,—'I can't get out.' Well, I'm glad you want to get out, my dear. My regards to your husband." He stood watching the carriage whirl down the road, with a shade of envy on his face.

When Helen had gone, and the little group on the porch had scattered, Lois rose to go into the house, but Gifford begged her to wait.

"You stay too much in-doors," he remonstrated; "it has made your face a little white. Do come into the garden awhile."

"She does look badly," said Mrs. Dale from the top of the steps, contemplating her niece critically. "I declare it puts me out of all patience with her, to see her fretting in this way."

Mrs. Dale was experiencing that curious indignation at a friend's suffering which expends itself upon the friend; in reality her heart was very tender towards her niece. "She misses the Forsythes," Mrs. Dale continued. "She's been so occupied with Arabella Forsythe since the accident, she feels as if she had nothing to do."

There was no lack of color in Lois's face now, which did not escape Gifford's eye.

"Go, now, and walk with Gifford," said Mrs. Dale coaxingly, as though she were speaking to a child.

Lois shook her head, without looking at him. "I don't believe I will, if you don't mind."

But Mrs. Dale was not satisfied. "Oh, yes, you'd better go. You've neglected the flowers dreadfully, I don't know how long it is since your father has had any fresh roses in the library."

"I'll get the garden scissors," Gifford pleaded; "it won't take long just to cut some roses."

"Well," Lois said languidly.

Gifford went through the wide cool hall for the shears and the basket of scented grass for the posies; he knew the rectory as well as his own home. Mrs. Dale had followed him, and in the shadowy back hall she gave him a significant look.

"That's right, cheer her up. Of course she feels their going very much. I must say, it does not show much consideration on the part of the young man to leave her at such a time,—I don't care what the business is that calls him away! Still, I can't say that I'm surprised. I never did like that Dick, and I have always been afraid Lois would care for him."

"I think it is a great misfortune," Gifford said gravely.

"Oh, well, I don't know," demurred Mrs. Dale. "It is an excellent match; and his carelessness now—well, it is only to be expected from a young man who would carry his mother off from—from our care, to be looked after by a hired nurse. He thought," said Mrs. Dale, bridling her head and pursing up her lips, "that a lot of 'fussy old women' couldn't take care of her. Still, it will be a good marriage for Lois. I'm bound to say that, though I have never liked him."

The young people did not talk much as they went down into the garden. Lois pointed out what roses Gifford might cut, and, taking them from him, put them into the little basket on her arm.

"How I miss Helen!" she said at last.

"Yes, of course," he answered, "but think how soon you'll see her in Lockhaven;" and then he tried to make her talk of the lumber town, and the people, and John Ward. But he had the conversation quite to himself. At last, with a desperate desire to find something in which she would be interested, he said, "You must miss your friends very much. I'm sorry they are gone."

"My friends?"

"Yes, Mr. Forsythe—and his mother."

"Oh, no!" she answered quickly.

"No?" Gifford said, wondering if she were afraid he had discovered her secret, and hastening to help her conceal it. "Oh, of course you feel that the change will be good for Mrs. Forsythe?"

"Oh, I hope it will!" cried Lois, fear trembling in the earnestness of her voice.

Gifford had stepped over the low box border to a stately bunch of milk-white phlox. "Let's have some of this," he said, beginning to cut the long stems close to the roots; "it always looks so well in the blue jug."

His back was toward her, and perhaps that gave him the courage to say, with a suddenness that surprised himself, "Ah—does Mrs. Forsythe go abroad with her son?"

Even as he spoke he wondered why he had said it; certainly it was from no interest in the sick lady. Was it because he hoped to betray Lois into some expression of opinion concerning Mr. Forsythe's departure? He despised himself if it were a test, but he did not stop to follow the windings of his own motives.

"Abroad?" Lois said, in a quick, breathless way. "Does he go abroad?"

Gifford felt her excitement and suspense without seeing it, and he began to clip the phlox with a recklessness which would have wrung Dr. Howe's soul.

"I—I believe so. I supposed you knew it."

"How do you know it?" she demanded.

"He told me," Gifford admitted.

"Are you sure?" she said in a quavering voice.

Gifford had turned, and was stepping carefully back among the plants, sinking at every step into the soft fresh earth. He did not look at her, as he reached the path.

"Are you sure?" she said again.

"Yes," he answered reluctantly, "yes, he is going; I don't know about his mother."

Here, to his dismay, he saw the color come and go on Lois's sad little face, and her lip tremble, and her eyes fill, and then, dropping her roses, she began to cry heartily.

"Oh, Lois!" he exclaimed, aghast, and was at her side in a moment. But she turned away, and, throwing her arm about an old locust-tree in the path, laid her cheek against the rough bark, and hid her eyes.

"Oh, don't cry, Lois," he besought her. "What a brute I was to have told you in that abrupt way! Don't cry."

"Oh, no," she said, "no, no, no! you must not say that—you—you do not understand"—

"Don't," he said tenderly, "don't—Lois!"

Lois put one hand softly on his arm, but she kept her face covered. Gifford was greatly distressed.

"I ought not to have told you in that way,"—Lois shook her head,—"and—and I have no doubt he—they'll come to Ashurst and tell you of their plans before they start."

Lois seemed to listen.

"Yes," Gifford continued, gaining conviction from his desire to help her, "of course he will return."

Lois had ceased to cry. "Do—do you think so?"

"I'm sure of it," Gifford answered firmly; and even as he spoke, he had a mental vision, in which he saw himself bringing Dick Forsythe back to Ashurst, and planting him forcibly at Lois's feet. "I ought to have considered," he went on, looking at her anxiously, "that in your exhausted state it would be a shock to hear that your friends were going so far away; though Europe isn't so very far, Lois. Of course they'll come and tell you all about it before they go; probably they had their own reasons for not doing it before they left Ashurst,—your health, perhaps. But no doubt, no possible doubt, that Mr. Forsythe, at least, will come back here to make any arrangements there may be about his house, you know."

This last was a very lame reason, and Gifford felt it, for the house had been closed and the rent paid, and there was nothing more to do; but he must say something to comfort her.

Lois had quite regained her composure; even the old hopeless look had returned.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I am very—foolish. I don't know why I am so weak—I—I am still anxious about Mrs. Forsythe, you know; the long journey for her"—

"Of course," he assured her. "I know how it startled you."

She turned to go into the house, and Gifford followed her, first picking up the neglected roses at her feet.

"I do not know what you think of me," she said tremulously.

"I only think you are not very strong," he answered tenderly, yet keeping his eyes from her averted face; he felt that he had seen more than he had a right to, already. His first thought was to protect her from herself; she must not think she had betrayed herself, and fancy that Gifford had guessed her engagement. He still hoped that, for the sake of their old friendship, she would freely choose to tell him. But most of all, she should not feel that she had shown despairing love for a man who neglected and slighted her, and that her companion pitied her. He even refused to let his thought turn to it.

"You must not mind me, Lois. I quite understand—the suddenness of hearing even the most—indifferent thing is enough to upset one when one is so tired out with nursing, and all that. Don't mind me."

"You are so good, Gifford," she said, with a sudden shy look from under her wet lashes, and a little lightening of her heavy eyes.

It was at least a joy to feel that he could comfort her, even though it cut his own heart to do so, and the pain of it made him silent for a few minutes.

When they had reached the steps, Lois's face had settled into its white apathy, which was almost despair. "I think I'll go in, Giff," she said. "I am so tired."

"Won't you fix the roses?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, I—I don't care anything about them; Sally can do it. Just leave them on the steps."

She gave him a wan little smile, and went into the house. Gifford stood in the sunshine, with the roses and the white phlox, and looked after her retreating figure. But in spite of his heartache, he would not leave the flowers to die, so he went hunting about for something to put them in, and finding the India china punch-bowl, with its soft blues and greens of enamel, and twists of roses and butterflies over groups of tiny mandarins, he brought it out, and laid his flowers in it, a little clumsily, perhaps, and heedless that some of the stems stuck out; but as he forgot the water, this did not so much matter. Then he carried it into the hall, and put it down on the table under the square window, and plodded home alone.

The noon sunshine poured hot and bright through the little panes of glass, and when Lois, later in the day, found the withered, drooping roses and the hanging heads of the white phlox, she felt they were only in keeping with all the rest of life.

Even the sparkling day had darkened, and Dr. Howe's prophecy of rain had been fulfilled.



CHAPTER XXVI.

It grew quite chilly towards dusk, which gave Dr. Howe an excuse for putting a match to the dusty pile of logs in the library fireplace. He liked the snap and glow of the flames, and did not object to the mild, soft heat; so he sat there long after Lois had gone wearily up-stairs to bed, and the rectory was full of drowsy silence.

Outside, the tree which leaned toward the house bent and swayed in the wind, and scratched against the weather boards, while the rain came in a quick dash against the glass, and then seemed to listen for an answer, and waver, and retreat, and go sweeping down among the bushes in the garden.

The rector had not lighted his lamp; the faint, still light from two candles in the row of silver candlesticks on the tall mantel was all he wanted until he began to read. He was ready to do that later. A church journal, with an account of a quarrel between a High-Church clergyman and his Low-Church Bishop, was within reach of his hand, and the "Three Guardsmen," in a ragged yellow cover, was astride his knee, but now he was content to sit and think. He made a prosperous and comfortable figure, reflected in the dim, dark mirror over the mantel, where the candles shone back like stars in a pool at night. A white moth had found its way into the house, and fluttered back and forth between the candles, its little white ghost following it in the glass. The rector watched it placidly. Even his thoughts were tranquil and comfortable, for he was equally indifferent both to the bishop and his rebellious clergyman. There was a cup of mulled wine simmering by the brass dogs, and the fire sputtered and sung softly. Max, with his nose between his paws, watched it with sleepy eyes. The little tinge of melancholy in Dr. Howe's face did not interfere with a look of quiet satisfaction with life; perhaps, indeed, it gave an added charm to his ruddy, handsome features. At first he had been thinking of Mr. Denner; not of that distressing day when he had told him of approaching death,—that was too painful for such an hour, he meant to meet it later,—but of the sad vacancy the little gentleman had left.

Perhaps the consciousness of the thought from which he was hiding turned his mind to Helen, and here all was satisfactory. There had been no discussion, none of the theological argument that her letters had given him cause to dread, which had made him feel a quiver in that solid rock of custom that a long-quieted earthquake had once shaken to its centre. He felt in a vague way that his niece was not quite so near and familiar, and there was a subtile reserve, which did not show itself in words or any check in the expression of her love, but which was certainly there. Yet he did not analyze it; he did not care to realize that perhaps she feared to speak of what was so real to her, because she knew he had no help for her. Dr. Howe would have perfectly understood that this must inevitably create a distance between them; but it would have been extremely painful to have let this creep into his thoughts, just as it would have been painful for him had she spoken of it; so he preferred to say to himself that all was well. The child had gotten over all that foolishness; he would have disliked to find fault with her, as he must have done had she mentioned it; he was glad it was all forgotten. He was glad, too, Lois was going to Lockhaven to see her. Poor little Lois! Ah, poor Denner! Well, well, there are some very sad things in life. And he lifted his mug of mulled wine, and drank thoughtfully, and then crossed his legs again on the fender; and the rain beat and sobbed outside.

He wondered if Lois's pale face had any connection with the departure of the Forsythes. Mrs. Dale had hinted at it, though she had not dared to quote Arabella Forsythe's triumphant secret. Then he remembered how disappointed he had been that nothing came of that affair. But on the whole it would have been very lonely at the rectory without Lois. It was just as well. Dr. Howe generally found that most things were "just as well." Indeed, he had been heard to say that, with a good digestion, any sorrow showed itself to have been best inside three years. Perhaps he had forgotten for the moment that he was a widower; but at all events, he said it.

So he blew his logs to a brighter blaze, and drank the rest of his mulled wine, stirring it round and round for the nutmeg and spice, and said to himself, listening to the beat of the rain as he pulled Max's silky ears, that it was the worst June storm he remembered. Perhaps that was why he did not hear the front door open and close with a bang against the gust which tried to force its way into the house, blowing out the hall lights, and sending a dash of rain into Sally's face.

"Lord!" cried Sally, with a shrill scream, "it's Miss Helen's ghost!"

The face she saw was ghost-like indeed. It was wet and streaming with rain, and the dark eyes were strange and unseeing.

"Do not tell Miss Lois I am here," the pale lips said. "Where is my uncle? I must see him."

Sally could only point speechlessly to the library door. Helen went swiftly towards it. She seemed to hesitate a moment before she entered, and then she opened it, and closed it again behind her, standing silently in front of it.

Dr. Howe looked up calmly, expecting to see Sally; but the sight of that still figure, with eyes which looked at him with a curious fixedness, sent the color from his face in one moment of actual fright. "Helen!" he cried, springing to his feet. "Good heavens! child, what is it? What is the matter?"

"I have come back," she answered, uttering each word with that peculiar slowness one notices in a very sick person, who tries to hear himself speak.

Dr. Howe had turned to light the lamp, but his hand shook, and Helen absently steadied the shade until he raised the wick, and then fumbled for his glasses, and turned to look at her. It was a relief to hear her speak.

"My dear," he said, his voice still tremulous, "you alarmed me terribly. Why, how wet you are!" He had laid his hand upon her shoulder to help her take off her wraps. "Bless my soul, child, you're drenched! Did you come in an open carriage? But why are you here? Did you miss your train?"

Even as he spoke, before she silently shook her head, he knew she would have been back by noon had she missed her train.

Max had come and sniffed suspiciously at her skirts before he recognized her, and then he rubbed his head against her knee, and reached up to be patted. She let her hand rest a moment on his head, and then with cold, stiff fingers tried to help her uncle take off her cloak, and lift her bonnet from her dripping hair. She made no effort to wipe the rain from her face, and Dr. Howe, with his big handkerchief, tried clumsily to do it for her.

"What is the matter, my dear?" the rector was saying nervously. "Is anything wrong with Mr. Ward? Have you had bad news? Tell me, my darling; you distress me by your silence."

Helen's throat seemed dry, and she moved her lips once or twice before the words came. "I have come back," she answered slowly, looking with absent eyes at Max, who was furtively licking her hand. "I have had a letter from John. So I have come back. I am very tired."

She looked wearily around, and swayed a little from side to side. Dr. Howe caught her in his arms. "My dear," he said, in a frightened voice, "my dear—you are very ill. I'll fetch Jean—I'll send for Adele!"

Helen laid her shaking hand upon his arm. "No, no,—I am not ill. I am only tired. I walked from Mercer, I think; I don't quite remember. Please do not call any one, uncle."

In spite of the wildness of her words, it was not a delirious woman who was speaking to him, as he had thought. "Try and tell me, then, what it all means," he said; "or stay,—first let me get you a glass of wine."

He went shuffling along in his slippers to the dining-room, and came back with a wineglass and the little fat decanter, with the silver collar clinking about its neck. He filled the glass, and held it to her lips, and then stood and looked at her as she drank, his lower lip thrust out, and perplexity and anxiety written on every feature.

Helen handed the glass back to him, and rose. "Thank you, uncle Archie," she said. "I—I must go up-stairs now. I am tired."

"But, my dear child," he remonstrated, "my dear Helen, you must tell me what all this means, first."

She looked at him entreatingly. "Not now,—oh, not to-night."

"But, Helen," he said, "I can't be kept in suspense, you know."

He tried to put his arm about her, but she pushed it a little aside and shook her head. "I will tell you," she said, while Dr. Howe, not understanding his repulse, stood with parted lips and frowning eyebrows, polishing his glasses on the skirt of his dressing-gown. Helen rubbed her hand across her forehead.

"I am a little confused," she began, "but—there is not much to say. John has written that I must not come back to Lockhaven. I shall never see my husband again, uncle Archie," she added piteously.

"Why—why—why!" cried Dr. Howe. "Bless my soul, what's all this? Mr. Ward says my niece is not to return to her husband! Oh, come, now, come!"

"Need we say anything more to-night?" Helen said. "I—I cannot talk."

Nothing could have shown Dr. Howe's affection for his niece more than the way in which he said, looking at her in silence for a moment, "My child, you shall do just what you please. Come up-stairs now, and get to bed. It will be a mercy if you're not laid up with a cold to-morrow. Would you rather not see Lois? Well, then, Jean shall come and make you comfortable."

But Dr. Howe, shuffling over the bare stairs, and fuming to himself, "What's all this! Nonsense, I say, perfect nonsense!" could not fail to arouse Lois, and she called out drowsily, "Good-night, father, dear. Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing,—nothing!" cried the rector testily. "Go to sleep. Come, Helen, take my arm, and let me help you."

"Helen!" Lois exclaimed, wide awake, and springing from her bed to rush to her cousin. "What is it?" she gasped, as she caught sight of the group.

"Nothing, I tell you," said the rector. "Go to bed at once; you'll take cold."

But Helen, seeing the distressed face, put her hands on Lois's shoulders, and pushed her gently back into her room. "I had to come back, Lois," she said. "I will tell you why, to-morrow. I am too tired, now. Don't speak to me, please, dear."

The rector had hurried down the entry to find Jean, who indeed needed no rousing, for Sally had told her who had come. "Let me know when Miss Helen is comfortable," he said.

And when the old woman, awed by Helen's still, white face, told him his niece was in bed, he came up again, holding the decanter by the throat, and begging her to take another glass of wine. But she only turned her head away and asked to be alone. She would not say anything more, and did not seem to hear his assurances that it would be "all right in the morning," and that "she must not worry."

It was the kindest thing to her, but it was very hard for the rector to go down to his library still in ignorance. The spell of peace had been rudely broken, and his fire was out. He lifted Helen's bonnet, still heavy with rain, and laid it on the cloak she had thrown across a chair, and then stood and looked at them as though they could explain the mystery of her return. The tall clock on the stairs struck eleven, and outside the storm beat and complained.

Dr. Howe was up early the next morning. He went through the silent house before Sally had crept yawning from her room, and, throwing open the doors at each end of the hall, let a burst of sunshine and fresh wind into the darkness and stillness. Then he went out, and began to walk up and down the porch as a sort of outlet to his impatience. Over and over he said, "What can it be?" Indeed, Dr. Howe had asked himself that question even in his dreams. "I hope there's no woman at the bottom of it," he thought. "But no; Ward's a fool, but he is a good man."

He stopped once, to lift a trailing vine and twist it about a support. The rain had done great damage in the night: the locust blossoms had been torn from the trees, and the lawn was white with them; the soft, wet petals of the climbing roses were scattered upon the path by the side of the house; and a long branch of honeysuckle, wrenched from its trellis, was prone upon the porch. These small interests quieted the rector, and he was able soon to reason himself into the belief that his niece's return was a trifling affair, perhaps a little uncomfortable, and certainly silly, but he would soon make it all right; so that when he saw her coming slowly down-stairs, with Lois creeping after her, almost afraid to speak, he was able to greet her very tranquilly.

"Are you rested, my child? After breakfast, we'll have a good talk, and everything shall be straightened out."

Breakfast was a dreary affair. Helen's abstraction was too profound for her to make even the pretense of eating. Once or twice, when Lois's voice pierced through the clouds and reached her heart, she looked up, and tried to reply. But they were all glad when it was over, and the rector put his arm gently over his niece's shoulders, and drew her into the library.

"If any one comes, Lois," he said, "you had better just say Helen changed her mind about going yesterday, and has come back for a few days."

"No," interrupted Helen slowly. "You had better say what is the truth, Lois. I have come back to Ashurst to stay."

"Now, my dear," remonstrated the rector when they were in the library, and he had shut the door, "that is really very unwise. These little affairs, little misunderstandings, are soon cleared up, and they are even forgotten by the people most interested in them. But outsiders never forget. So it is very unwise to speak of them."

Helen had seated herself on the other side of his writing-table, brushing away the litter of papers and unanswered letters, so that she could lean her elbow on it, and now she looked steadily across at him.

"Uncle," she said, calmly "you do not know. There is no misunderstanding. It is just what I told you last night: he thinks it best that I should leave him indefinitely. I know that it is forever. Yes, it seems to him best. And I am sure, feeling as he does, he is right. Yes, John is right."

Dr. Howe threw himself back in his revolving chair, and spun half-way round. "Helen," he said, "this is folly; you must talk like a sensible woman. You know you cannot leave your husband. I suppose you and Ward, like all the rest of the world that is married, have had some falling out; and now, being young, you think your lives are over. Nonsense! Bless my soul, child, your aunt and I had dozens of them, and all as silly as this, I'll be bound. But I'm sure we did not take the public into our confidence by declaring that we would live apart. I should have given you credit for more sense, indeed I should."

Helen did not notice the reprimand.

"Now tell me all about it," he continued. "You know you can trust me, and I'll write your husband a letter which will make things clear."

Helen shook her head wearily. "You will not understand. Nothing can be done; it is as fixed as—death. We can neither of us alter it and be ourselves. Oh, I have tried and tried to see some way out of it, until it seems as if my soul were tired."

"I did not intend to be severe, my child," the rector said, with remorseful gentleness, "but in one way it is a more serious thing than you realize. I don't mean this foolishness of a separation; that will all be straightened out in a day or two. But we do not want it gossiped about, and your being here at all, after having started home, looks strange; and of course, if you say anything about having had a—a falling out with Ward, it will make it ten times worse. But you haven't told me what it is?"

"Yes, I'll tell you," she answered, "and then perhaps you will see that it is useless to talk about it. I must just take up the burden of life as well as I can."

"Go on," said the rector.

"John has been much distressed lately," Helen began, looking down at her hands, clasping each other until the skin was white across the knuckles, "because I have not believed in eternal punishment. He has felt that my eternal happiness depended upon holding such a belief." Dr. Howe looked incredulous. "Some weeks ago, one of his elders came to him and told him I was spreading heresy in the church, and damning my own soul and the souls of others who might come to believe as I did,—you know I told Mrs. Davis that her husband had not gone to hell,—and he reproached John for neglecting me and his church too; for John, to spare me, had not preached as he used to, on eternal punishment. It almost killed him, uncle," she said, and her voice, which had given no hint of tears since her return, grew unsteady. "Oh, he has suffered so! and he has felt that it was his fault, a failure in his love, that I did not believe what he holds to be true."

"Heavens!" cried the rector explosively, "heresy? Is this the nineteenth century?"

"Since I have been away," Helen went on, without noticing the interruption, "they have insisted that I should be sessioned,—dealt with, they call it. John won't let me come back to that; but if that were his only reason, we could move away from Lockhaven. He has a nobler reason: he feels that this unbelief of mine will bring eternal misery to my soul, and he would convert me by any means. He has tried all that he knows (for oh, we have discussed it endlessly, uncle Archie!),—argument, prayer, love, tenderness, and now—sorrow."

The rector was sitting very straight in his chair, his plump hands gripping the arms of it, and his lips compressed with anger, while he struggled for patience to hear this preposterous story through.

"He makes me suffer," Helen continued, "that I may be saved. And indeed I don't see how he can do anything else. If a man believes his wife will be damned for all eternity unless she accepts certain doctrines, I should think he would move heaven and earth to make her accept them. And John does believe that. In denying reprobation, I deny revelation, he says, and also the Atonement, upon which salvation depends. So now you see why he says I shall not come back to him until I have found the truth."

Then Dr. Howe burst into a torrent of indignant remonstrance. A clergyman send his wife from him because she does not believe some dogma! Were we back in the dark ages? It was too monstrously absurd! If the idiots he preached to forced him to do it, let him leave them; let him come to Ashurst. The rector would build him a meeting-house, and he could preach his abominable doctrine to anybody who was fool enough to go and hear him.

Dr. Howe was walking hastily up and down the room, gesticulating as he talked. Helen's patient eyes followed him. Again and again she tried to point out to him her husband's intense sincerity, and the necessity which his convictions forced upon him. But the rector refused to think Mr. Ward's attitude worthy of serious consideration. "The man is insane!" he cried. "Send his wife away from him to force her into a certain belief? Madness,—I tell you, madness!"