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 JOHN WARD 
 
 PREACHER. 
 
 A 2Tot?eL 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET DELAND t 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'THE OLD GARDEN.' 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD EDWARD KING, 
 
 106, 108, 1 10, TABERNACLE STREET, E.G.
 
 LONDON I 
 
 PRINTED BY RICHARD EDWARD KING, 
 TABERNACLE STREET, B.C.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE evening before Helen Jeffrey's wedding-day, the whole house, 
 hold at the rectory came out into the garden. 
 
 'The fact is,' said Dr. Howe, smiling good-naturedly at his 
 niece, 'the importance of this occasion has made everybody so full 
 of suppressed excitement one can't breathe in the house.' 
 
 And indeed a wedding in Ashurst had all the charm of novelty. 
 ' Why, bless my soul,' said the rector, ' let me see : it must be ten 
 no, twelve years since Mary Drayton was married, and that was 
 our last wedding. Well, we couldn't stand such dissipation oftener; 
 it would wake us up.' 
 
 But Ashurst rather prided itself upon being half asleep. The 
 rush and life of newer places had a certain vulgarity ; haste was 
 undignified, it was almost ill-bred, and the most striking thing 
 about the village, resting at the feet of its low green hills, was its 
 atmosphere of leisure and repose. 
 
 Its grassy road was nearly two miles long, so that Ashurst 
 seemed to cover a great deal of ground, though there were really 
 very few houses. A lane, leading to the rectory, curled about the 
 foot of East Hill at one end of the road, and at the other was the 
 brick-walled garden of the Misses Woodhouse. 
 
 Between these extremes the village had slowly grown ; but its 
 first youth was so far past, no one quite remembered it, and even 
 the trying stage of middle age was.over, and its days of growth 
 were ended. This was perhaps because of its distance from the 
 county town, for Mercer was twelve miles away, and there was no 
 prospect of a railway to unite them. It had been talked of once ; 
 some of the shopkeepers, as well as Mr. Lash, the carpenter, ad- 
 vocated it strenuously at Bulcher's grocery store in the evenings, 
 because, they said, they were at the mercy of Phibbs, the package 
 man, who brought their wares on his slow, creaking cart over the 
 dusty turnpike from Mercer. But others, looking into the future, 
 objected to a convenience which might result in a diminution of 
 what little trade they had. Among the families, however, who 
 did not have to consider 'trade,' there was great unanimity, 
 though the Draytons murmured something about the increased
 
 s /OHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 value of the land ; possibly not so much with a view to the wel- 
 fare of Ashurst as because their property extended along the pro- 
 posed line of the road. 
 
 The rector was very firiii in his opinion. ' Why,' said he, mop- 
 ping his forehead with his big silk handkerchief, ' what do we 
 want with a railroad ? My grandfather never thought of such a 
 thing, so I think I can get along without it, and it is a great deal 
 better for the village not to have it.' 
 
 It would have cut off one corner of his barn, and though this 
 could not have interfered with the material or spiritual welfare of 
 Ashurst, Dr. Howe's opinion never wavered. And the rector but 
 expressed the feelings of the other ' families,' so that all Ashurst 
 was conscious of relief when the projectors of the railroad went no 
 further than to make a cut at one end of the Drayton pastures ; 
 and that was so long ago that now the earth, which had shown a 
 ragged yellow wound across the soft greenness of the meadows, 
 was sown by sweet clover and wild roses, and gave no sign of ever 
 having been gashed by picks and shovels. 
 
 The Misses Woodhouse's little orchard of gnarled and wrinkled 
 apple-trees came to the edge of the cut on one side, and then 
 sloped down to the kitchen garden and back door of their old 
 house, which in front was shut off from the road by a high brick 
 wall, gray with lichens, and crumbling in places where the mor- 
 tar had rotted under the creepers and ivy, which hung in heavy 
 festoons over the coping. The tall iron gates had not been closed 
 for years, and, rusting on their hinges, had pressed back against 
 the inner wall, and were almost hidden by the tangle of vines that 
 were woven in and out of the bars, and waved about in the sun- 
 shine from their tops. 
 
 The square garden which the wall inclosed was full of cool, 
 green darkness ; the trees were the growth of three generations, 
 and the syringas and lilacs were so thick and close they had scarce- 
 ly light enough for blossoming. The box borders, which edged 
 the straight prim walks, had grown, in spite of clippings, to be 
 almost hedges, so that the paths between them were damp, and 
 the black, hard earth had a film of moss over it. Old-fashioned 
 flowers grew just where their ancestors had stood fifty years be- 
 fore. ' I could find the bed of white violets with my eyes shut,' 
 said Miss Ruth Woodhouse ; and she knew how far the lilies of 
 the valley spread each spring, and how much it would be neces- 
 sary to clip, every other year, the big arbor vitas, so that the sun- 
 shine might fall upon her bunch of sweetwilliams. 
 
 Miss Ruth was always very generous with her flowers, but now 
 that there was to be a we.dding at the rectory she meant to strip 
 the garden of every blossom she could find, and her nephew was 
 to take them to church the first thing in the morning. 
 
 Gifford Woodhouse had lately returned from Europe, and his 
 three years' travel had not prepared his aunts to treat him as any-
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 3 
 
 thing but the boy he seemed to them when he left the law school. 
 They still sent dear Giff' here, or ' brought him ' there, an/3 ar- 
 ranged his plans for him, in entire unconsciousness that he might 
 have a will of his own. Perhaps the big fellow's silence rather 
 helped the impression, for so long as he did not remonstrate when 
 they bade him do this or that, it was not of so much consequence 
 that, in the end, he did exactly as he pleased. This was not often 
 at variance with the desires of the two sisters, for the wordless 
 influence of his will so enveloped them that his wishes were apt 
 to be theirs. But no one could have been more surprised than 
 the little ladies, had they been told that their nephew's intention 
 of practising law in the lumber town of Lockhaven had been his 
 own idea. 
 
 They had cordially agreed with him when he observed that 
 another lawyer in Ashurst, beside Mr. Denner, would have no 
 other occupation than to make his own will ; and they had 
 nodded approvingly when the young man added that it would 
 scarcely seem gracious to settle in Mercer while Mr. Denner still 
 hoped to find clients there, and sat once a week, for an hour, in 
 a dingy back office waiting /or them. True, they never came ; 
 but Gifford had once read law with Mr. Denner, and knew and 
 loved the little gentleman, so he could not do a thing which 
 might appear discourteous. And when he further remarked that 
 there seemed to be a good opening in Lockhaven, which was a 
 growing place, and that it would be very jolly to have Helen 
 Jeffrey there when she became Mrs. Ward, the two Misses Wood- 
 house smiled, and said firmly that they approved of it, and that 
 they would send him to Lockhaven in the spring, and they were 
 glad they had thought of it. 
 
 On this June night they had begged him to take a message to 
 the rectory about the flowers for the wedding. ' He is glad 
 enough to go, poor child,' said Miss Deborah, sighing, when she 
 saw the alacrity with which he started ; he feels her marriage very 
 much, though he is so young.' 
 
 ' Are you sure, dear Deborah ? ' asked Miss Ruth, doubt- 
 fully. ' I never really felt quite certain that he was interested 
 in her.' 
 
 'Certainly I am,' answered Miss Deborah sharply, 'I've al- 
 ways maintained they were made for each other.' 
 
 But Gifford Woodhouse's pleasant gray eyes, under straight 
 brown brows, showed none of the despair of an unsuccessful 
 lover ; on the contrary, he whistled softly through his blonde 
 moustache, as he came along the rectory lane, and then walked 
 down the path to join the party in the garden. 
 
 The four people who were gathered at the foot of the lawn 
 were very silent ; Dr. Howe, whose cigar glowed and faded 
 like a larger firefly than those which were beginning to spangle 
 ths darkness, was the only one ready to talk. ' Well,' he said,
 
 4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 knocking off his cigar ashes on the arm of his chair, every- 
 thing ready for to-morrow, girls ? Trunks packed and gowns 
 trimmed ? We'll have to keep you, Helen, to see that the 
 house is put in order after all this turmoil ; don't you think so, 
 Lois ? ' 
 
 Here the rector yawned secretly. 
 
 'You needn't worry about order, father,' Lois said, lifting her 
 head from her cousin's shoulder, her red lower lip pouting a little, 
 ' but I wish we could keep Helen.' 
 
 ' Do you hear that, Mr. Ward ? ' the rector said. ' Yes, we're 
 all going to miss the child very much. Gifford Woodhouse was 
 saying to-day Ashurst would lose a great deal when sjj^ went. 
 There's a compliment for you, Helen ! How that fellow has 
 changed in these three years abroad! He's quite a man now. 
 Why, how old is he ? It's hard for us elders to realize that chil- 
 dren grow up.' 
 
 ' Giff is twenty-six,' Lois said. 
 
 ' Why, to be sure,' said Dr. Howe, ' so he is ! Of course, I 
 might have known it : he was born the year your brother was, 
 Lois, and he would have been twenty-six if he'd lived. Nice 
 fellow, Gifford is. I'm sorry he's not going to practise in Mercer. 
 He has a feeling that it might interfere with Denner in some way. 
 But dear me, Denner never had a case outside Ashurst in his 
 life. Still, it shows good feeling in the boy; and I'm glad he's 
 going to be in Lockhaven. He'll keep an eye on Helen, and let 
 us know if she behaves with proper dignity. I think you'll like 
 him, Mr. Ward I would say John, my dear fellow ! ' 
 
 There was a lack of sympathy on the part of the rector for the 
 man at his side, which made it difficult for him to drop the for- 
 mal address, and think of him as one of the family. ' I respect 
 Ward,' he said once to his sister. ' I can't help respecting him ; 
 but bless my soul, I wish he was more like other people ! ' There 
 was something about the younger man, Dr. Howe did not know 
 just what, which irritated him. Ward's earnestness was posi- 
 tively aggressive, he said, and there seemed a sort of undress of 
 the mind in his entire openness and frankness ; his truthfulness, 
 which ignored the courteous deceits of social life, was a kind of 
 impropriety. 
 
 But John Ward had not noticed either the apology or the 
 omission ; no one answered the rector, so he .went on talking for 
 mere occupation. 
 
 'I always liked Gifford as a boy,' he said; 'he was such a manly 
 fellow, and no blatherskite, talking his elders to death. He 
 never had much to say, and when he did talk it was to the point. 
 I remember once seeing him why, let me see, he couldn't have 
 been more than fifteen breaking a colt in the west pasture. It 
 was one of Bet's fillies, and as black as a coal : you remember 
 her, don't you, Lois ? a beauty ! I was coming home from the
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. S 
 
 village early in the morning; somebody was sick and I'd been 
 sent for ; it must have been about six, and there was Gifford 
 struggling with that young mare in the west pasture. He had 
 thrown off his coat, and caught her by the mane and a rope bridle, 
 and he was trying to ride her. That blonde head of his was right 
 against her neck, an<? when she reared he clung to her till she 
 lifted him off his feet. He got the best of her, though, and the 
 first thing she knew he was on her back. Jove ! how she did plunge ! 
 but he mastered her ; he sat superbly. I felt Gifford had the 
 making of a man in him, after that. He inherits his father's pluck. 
 You know Woodhouse made a record at Lookout Mountain ; he 
 was killed the third day.' 
 
 ' Gifford used to say,' said Helen, ' that he wished he had been 
 born in time to go into the army.' 
 
 ' There's a good deal of fight in the boy,' said the rector, 
 chuckling. ' His aunts were always begging him not to get into 
 rows with the village boys. I even had to caution him myself. 
 ' Never fight, sir,' I'd say ; ' but if you do fight, whip 'em ! ' Yes, 
 it's a pity he couldn't have been in the army.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Lois, impatiently, ' Giff would have fought, I know, 
 but he's so contradictory ! I've heard him say the Southerners 
 couldn't help fighting for secession ; it was a principle to them, 
 and there was no moral wrong about it, he said.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! ' cried the rector ; ' these young men, who 
 haven't borne the burden and heat of the day, pretend to instruct 
 us, do they ? No moral wrong ? I thought Gifford had some 
 sense ! They were condemned by God and man.' 
 
 ' But, Uncle Archie,' Helen said slowly, ' if they thought they 
 were right, you can't say there was a moral wrong ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, come, come,' said Dr. Howe, with an indignant splutter, 
 'you don't understand these things, my dear you're young yet, 
 Helen. They were wrong through and through ; so don't be 
 absurd.' Then turning half apologetically to John Ward, he 
 added, ' You'll have to keep this child's ideas in order ; I'm sure 
 she never heard such sentiments from me. Mr. Ward will think 
 you haven't been well brought up, Helen. Principle ? Twaddle ! 
 their pockets were what they thought of. All this talk of princi- 
 ple is rubbish.' 
 
 The rector's face was flushed, and he brought his fist down with 
 emphasis upon the arm of his chair. 
 
 ' And yet,' said John Ward, lifting his thoughtful dark eyes to 
 Dr. Howe's handsome face, ' I have always sympathized with a 
 mistaken idea of duty, and I am sure that many Southerners felt 
 they were only doing their duty in fighting for secession and the 
 perpetuation of slavery.' 
 
 ' I don't agree with you, sir,' said Dr. Howe, whose ideas of 
 hospitality forbade more vigorous speech, but his bushy gray eye- 
 brows were drawn into a frown.
 
 * JOHN WARD, PREACHER 
 
 ' I think you are unfair not to admit that,' John continued 
 with gentle persistence, while the rector looked at him in silent 
 astonishment, and the two young women smiled at each other in 
 the darkness. (' The idea of contradicting father ! ' Lois whis- 
 pered.) ' They felt,' he went on, ' that they had found authority 
 for slavery in the Bible, so what else could they do but insist 
 upon it ? ' 
 
 'Nonsense!' said Dr. Howe, forgetting himself; 'the Bible 
 never taught any such wicked things. They believed in States 
 rights, and they wanted slavery.' 
 
 ' But,' John said, ' if they did believe the Bible permitted 
 slavery, what else could they do ? Knowing that it is the inspired 
 Word of God, and that every action of life is to be decided by it, 
 they had to fight for an institution which they believed sacred, 
 even if their own judgment and inclination did not concede that 
 it was right. If you thought the Bible taught that slavery was 
 right, what would you do ? ' 
 
 ' I never could think anything so absurd,' the rector answered, 
 a shade of contempt in his good-natured voice. 
 
 ' But if you did,' John insisted, ' even if you were unable to see 
 that it was right if the Bible taught it, inculcated it? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe laughed impatiently, and flung the end of his cigar 
 down into the bushes, where it glowed for a moment like an angry 
 eye. ' I I ? Oh, I'd read some other part of the book,' he said. 
 ' But I refuse to think such a cribis possible ; you can always find 
 some other meaning in a text, you know.' 
 
 'But, Uncle Archie,' said Helen, 'if one did think the Bible 
 taught something to which one's conscience or one's reason could 
 not assent, it seems to me there could be only one thing to do 
 give up the Bible ! ' 
 
 'Oh no,' said Dr. Howe; 'don't be so extreme, Helen. 
 There would be many things to do ; leave the consideration of 
 slavery, or whatever the supposed wrong was, until you'd 
 mastered all the virtues of the Bible ; time enough to think of an 
 alternative then eh, Ward ? Well, thank Heaven, the war's 
 over, or we'd have you a rank copperhead. Come, it's time 
 to go into the house. I don't want any heavy eyes for to- 
 morrow. ' 
 
 ' What a speech for a minister's wife, Helen ! ' Lois cried, as 
 they rose. ' What would people say if they heard you announce 
 that you " would give up the Bible " ? ' 
 
 ' I hope no one will ever hear her say anything so foolish,' 
 said Dr. Howe, but John Ward looked at Lois in honest 
 surprise . 
 
 ' Would it make any difference what people said ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Oh, I wasn't speaking very seriously,' Lois answered, laugh- 
 ing ; ' but still, one does not like to say anything which is unusual,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 7 
 
 you know, about such things. And of course Helen doftsn't really 
 mean that she'd give up the Bible.' 
 
 ' But I do,' Helen interrupted, smiling ; and she might have said 
 more, for she could not see John's troubled look in the darkness, 
 but Gifford Woodhouse came down the path to meet them and 
 give Miss Ruth's message. 
 
 ' Just in time, young man,' said the rector, as Gifford silently 
 took some of John's burden of shawls and cushions, and turned 
 and walked beside him. 'Here's Helen giving Ward an awful 
 idea of her orthodoxy ; come and vouch for the teaching you get at 
 St. Michael's.' 
 
 Gifford laughed. ' What is orthodoxy, doctor ? ' he said ; ' I'm 
 sure I don't know! ' 
 
 ' "The hungry sheep look up and are not fed," ' quoted the 
 rector, in a burlesque despair. 'Why, what we believe, boy 
 what we believe ! The rest of my flock know better, Mr. Ward, I 
 assure you.' 
 
 ' I don't think we know what we do believe, uncle,' Helen 
 said lightly. 
 
 ' This grows worse and worse,' said the rector. ' Come, 
 Helen, when an intelligent young woman, I might say a bright 
 young woman, makes a common-place speech, it is a mental 
 yawn, and denotes exhaustion. You and Lois are tired; run 
 upstairs. Vanish ! I say. Good-night, dear child, and God 
 bless you ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ASHURST RECTORY, in a green seclusion of vines and creepers, 
 stood close to the lane Strawberry Lane it was called, because 
 of a tradition that wild strawberries grew there. The richness 
 of the garden was scarcely kept in bounds by its high fence ; the 
 tops of the bushes looked over it, and climbing roses shed their 
 petals on the path below, and cherries, blossoms, and fruit were 
 picked by the passer-by. ' There is enough for us inside,' said 
 the rector. 
 
 The house itself was of gray stone, which seemed to have caught, 
 where it was not hidden by Virginia creepers and wistaria, the 
 mellow colouring of the sunset light, which flooded it from a gap 
 in the western hills. Its dormer windows, their roofs like brown 
 caps bent about their ears, had lattices opening outward ; and 
 from one of these Lois Howe, on the evening of Helen's wedding- 
 day, had seen her father wandering about the garden, with the red 
 setter at his heels, and had gone down to join him. 
 
 ' I wonder,' she said, as she wound her round young arm in 
 bis, which was behind him, and held his stick, ' if John Ward
 
 8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 has a garden ? I hope so ; Helen is so fond of flowers. But 
 he never said anything about it ; he just went round as though he 
 was in a dream. He was perfectly happy if he could only look at 
 Helen ! ' 
 
 ' Well, that's right,' said the rector, ' that's proper. What else 
 would you have ? The fact is, Lois, you don't like Ward. Now, 
 he is a good fellow ; yes, good is just the word for him. Bless my 
 aoul, there's a pitch of virtue about him that is exhausting. But 
 that's our fault,' he added, candidly. 
 
 ' Oh, I'll like him,' Lois said quickly, ' if he will just make Helen 
 happy.' 
 
 The rector shook his head. ' I know how you feel,' he said, 
 ' and I acknowledge he is odd ; that talk of his last night about 
 slavery being a righteous institution ' 
 
 ' Oh, he didn't say that, father,' Lois interrupted. 
 
 ' Was presumptuous,' continued Dr. Howe, not noticing her ; 
 ' but he's earnest, he's sincere, and I have a great deal of respect 
 for earnestness. And look here, Lois, you must not let anybody 
 see you are not in sympathy with Helen's choice ; be careful of 
 that tongue of yours, child. It's bad taste to make one's private 
 disappointments public. I wouldn't speak of it even to your aunt 
 Deely, if I were you.' 
 
 He stooped down to pull some matted grass from about the roots 
 of a laburnum-tree, whose dark leaves were lighted by golden 
 loops of blossoms. ' Thirty-eight years ago,' he said, ' your mother 
 and I planted this ; we had just come from our wedding journey, 
 and she had brought this slip from her mother's garden in Vir- 
 ginia. But, dear me, I suppose I've told you that a dozen times. 
 What ? How to-day brings back that trip of ours ! We came 
 through Lockhaven, but it was by stage-coach. I remember we 
 thought we were so fortunate because The other two passengers 
 got out there, and we had the coach to ourselves. Your mother had 
 a striped ribbon, or gauze I don't know what you call it on her 
 bonnet, and it kept blowing out of the window of the coach, like a 
 little flag. You young people can go further in less time, when 
 you travel, but you will never know the charm of staging it through 
 the mountains. I declare I haven't thought of it for years, but 
 to-day brings it all back to me ! ' 
 
 They had reached the rectory porch, and Dr. Howe settled him- 
 self in the wicker chair and lighted his cigar, while Lois sat down 
 on the steps, and began to dig small holes in the gravel with the 
 stick her father had resigned to her. 
 
 The flood of soft lamplight from the open hall door threw the 
 portly figure of the rector into full relief, and, touching Lois's 
 head, as she sat in the shadow at the foot of the steps, with a 
 faint aureole, fell in a broad bright square on the lawn in front of 
 the house. They had begun to speak again of the wedding, when 
 the click of the gate latch and the swinging glimmer of a lantern
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 9 
 
 through tne lilacs and syringas warned them that some one was 
 coming, and in another moment the Misses Woodhouse and their 
 nephew stepped across the square of light. 
 
 Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were quite unconscious that they 
 gave the impression of carrying Gifford about with them, rather 
 than of being supported by him, for each little lady had passed a 
 determined arm through one of his, and instead of letting her small 
 hand, incased in its black silk mitt, rest upon his sleeve, pressed 
 it firmly to her breast. 
 
 Ashurst was a place where friendships grew in simplicity as well 
 as strength with the years, and because these three people had 
 been most of the morning at the rectory, arranging flowers, or 
 moving furniture about, or helping with some dainty cooking, and 
 then had gone to the church at noon for the wedding, they saw no 
 reason why they should not come again in the evening. So the 
 sisters had put on their second-best black silks, and, summoning 
 Gifford, had walked through the twilight to the rectory. Miss 
 Deborah Woodhouse had a genius for economy, which gave her 
 great pleasure and involved but slight extra expense to the house- 
 hold, and she would have felt it a shocking extravagance to have 
 kept on the dress she had worn to the wedding. Miss Ruth, who 
 was an artist, the sisters said, and fond of pretty things, reluctantly 
 followed her example. 
 
 They sat down now in the rectory porch, and began to talk, in 
 their eager, delicate little voices, of the day's doings. They scarce- 
 ly noticed that their nephew and Lois had gone into the fragrant 
 dusk of the garden. It did not interest them that the young people 
 should wish to see, as Gifford had said, how the sunset light 
 lingered behind the hills ; and when they had exhausted the 
 subject of the wedding, Miss Ruth was anxious to ask the rector 
 about his greenhouse and the relative value of leaf mould and bone 
 dressing, so they gave no thought to the two who still delayed 
 among the flowers. 
 
 This was not surprising. Gifford and Lois had known each 
 other all their lives. They had quarrelled and made up with 
 kisses, and later on had quarrelled and made up without the 
 kisses, but they had always felt themselves the most cordial 
 and simple friends. Then had come the time when Gifford must 
 go to college, and Lois had only seen him in his short vaca- 
 tions ; and these gradually became far from pleasant. ' Gifford 
 has changed,' she said petulantly. ' He is so polite to me,' she 
 complained to Helen ; not that Gifford had ever been rude, but he 
 had been brotherly 
 
 He once asked her for a rose from a bunch she had fastened in 
 her dress. ' Why don't you pick one yourself, Giff ? ' she said 
 simply ; and afterwards, with a sparkle of indignant tears in her 
 eyes and with a quick impatience which made her an amusing 
 copy of her father, she said to Helen, ' I suppose he meant to
 
 io JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 treat me as though I was some fine young lady. Why can't he 
 be just the old Giff? ' A when he came back from Europe, she 
 declared he was still worse. 
 
 Yet even in their estrangement they united in devotion to 
 Helen. It was to Helen they appealed in all their differences, 
 which were many, and her judgment was final ; Lois never doubted 
 it, even though Helen generally thought Gifford was in the right. 
 So now, when her cousin had left her, she was at least sure of the 
 young man's sympathy. 
 
 She was glad he was going to practise in Lockhaven ; he would 
 be near Helen, and make the new place less lonely for her, she 
 said, once. And Helen had smiled, as though she could be lonely 
 where John was ! 
 
 They walked now between the borders, where old-fashioned 
 flowers crowded together, towards the stone bench. This was a 
 slab of sandstone, worn and flaked by weather, and set on two low 
 posts ; it leaned a little against the trunk of a silver-poplar tree, 
 which served for a back, and it looked like an altar ready for the 
 sacrifice. The thick blossoming grass, which the mower's scythe 
 had been unable to reach, grew high about the corners ; three or 
 four stone steps led up to it, but they had been laid so long ago 
 they were sunken at one side or the other, and almost hidden by 
 moss and wild violets. Quite close to the bench a spring bubbled 
 out of the hillside, and ran singing through a hollowed locust log, 
 which was mossy green where the water had overflowed, with a 
 musical drip, upon the grass underneath. 
 
 They stood a moment looking towards the west, where a golden 
 dust seemed blown across the sky, up into the darkness ; then 
 Lois took her seat upon the bench. ' When do you think you will 
 get off, Giff ? ' she said. 
 
 'I'm not quite sure,' he answered; he was sitting on one of 
 the lower steps, and leaning on his elbow in the grass, so that he 
 might see her face. ' I suppose it will take a fortnight to arrange 
 everything.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that,' Lois said disappointedly. ' I thought you 
 would go in a few days.' 
 
 Gifford was silent, and began to pick three long stems of grass 
 and braid them together. Lois sat absently twisting the fringe 
 on one end of the soft scarf of yellow crape, which was knotted 
 across her bosom, and fell almost to the hem of her white dress. 
 
 ' I mean,' she said, ' I'm sorry Helen won't have you in Lock- 
 haven. Of course Ashurst will miss you. Oh dear ! how horrid 
 it will be not to have Helen here ! ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Gifford sympathetically, 'you'll be awfully lonely.' 
 
 They were silent for a little while. Some white phlox in the 
 girl's bosom glimmered faintly, and its heavy fragrance stole out 
 upon the warm air. She pulled off a cluster of the star-like blos- 
 soms, and held them absently against her lips. ' You don't seem
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. n 
 
 at all impatient to get away from Ashurst, Giff,' she said. ' If I 
 had been you, I should have gone to Lockhaven a month ago ; 
 everything is so sleepy here. Oh, if I were a man, wouldn't I just 
 go out into the world ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Lockhaven can scarcely be called the world,' Gifford 
 answered in his slow way. 
 
 ' But I should think you would want to go because it will be 
 such a pleasure 1 v j Helen to have you there,' she said. 
 
 Gifford smiled. He had twisted his braid of grass into a ring, 
 and had pushed it on the smallest of his big fingers, and was turn- 
 ing it thoughtfully about. 'I don't believe,' he said, 'that it 
 will make the slightest difference to Helen whether I am there or 
 not. She has Mr. Ward.' 
 
 ' Oh,' Lois said, ' I hardly think even Mr. Ward can take the 
 place of father, and the rectory and me. I know it will make 
 Helen happier to have somebody from home near her.' 
 
 'No,' the young man said with a quiet persistence, 'it won't 
 make the slightest difference, Lois. She'll have the person she 
 loves best in the world ; and with the person one loves best one 
 could be content in the desert of Sahara.' 
 
 'You seem to have a very high opinion of John Ward,' Lois 
 said, a thread of anger in her voice. 
 
 ' I have,' said Gifford; 'but that is not what I mean. It's love, 
 not John Ward, which means content. But you don't have a 
 very high opinion of him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I have,' Lois said quickly ; ' only he is not good 
 enough for Helen. I suppose, though, I'd say that of anybody. 
 And he irritates me, he is so different from other people. I don't 
 think I do adore him.' 
 
 Gifford did not speak. He took another strand of grass, and 
 began to weave it round and round his little ring, to make it 
 smaller. 
 
 ' Perhaps I ought not to say that,' she added. ' Of course I 
 wouldn't to anyone but you.' 
 
 ' You ought not to say it to me, Lois,' he said. 
 
 ' Why ? Isn't it true ? ' she said. ' I don't think it is wrong to 
 say he's different ; it's certainly true ! ' Gifford was silent. ' Do 
 you ? ' she demanded. 
 
 'Yes,' Gifford answered quietly. 'And somehow it doesn't 
 seem fair, don't you know, to say anything about them, they are 
 so happy; it seems as though we ought not even to speak of 
 them.' 
 
 Lois was divided between indignation at being found fault with, 
 and admiration for the sentiment. ' Well,' she said, rather 
 meekly for her, ' I won't say anything more ; no doubt I shall 
 like him when I know him better.' 
 
 ' See if that fits your finger Lois,' her companion said, sitting 
 up, and handing her the little grass ring. She took it, smiling,
 
 ia JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 and tried it on. Gifford watched her with an intentness which 
 made him frown ; her bending head was like a shadowy sil- 
 houette against the pale sky, and the little curls caught the light 
 in soft mist around her forehead. 
 
 ' But I'm glad for my own part, then,' she went on, ' to think of 
 you and Helen. You must tell me everything about her and her 
 life, when you write ; she won't do it herself.' 
 
 ' I will,' he answered, ' if you will let me write to you.' 
 
 Lois opened her eyes with surprise ; here was this annoying 
 formality again, which Gifford's fault-finding seemed to have 
 banished. ' Let you write ? ' she said impatiently. ' Why, you 
 know I depended on your writing, Giff, and you must tell me 
 everything you can think of. What's the good of having a friend 
 in Lockhaven if you don't.' 
 
 She had clasped her hands tightly on her knees, and was lean- 
 ing forward a little, looking at him ; for he had turned away 
 from her, and was pulling at a bunch of violets. ' I tell you 
 what it is Lois,' he said ; ' I cannot go away, and write to you, 
 and not not tell you. I suppose I'm a fool to tell you, but I 
 can't help it.' 
 
 ' Tell me what ? ' Lois asked bewildered. 
 
 ' Oh,' Gifford burst out, rising, and standing beside her, his 
 big figure looming up in the darkness, ' it's this talk of friend- 
 ship, Lois, that I cannot stand. You see I love you.' 
 
 There was silence for one long moment. It was so still they 
 could hear the bubbling of the spring, like a soft voice, com- 
 plaining in the darkness. Then Lois said, under her -breath, 
 Oh, Gifford ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do,' he went on desperately. ' I know you've never 
 thought of such a thing; somehow, I could not seem to make 
 you see it you wouldn't see it ; but I do love you, and and, 
 Lois if you could care, just a little ? I've loved you so long.' 
 
 Lois shrank back against the silver-poplar tree, and put her 
 hands up to her face. In a moment tenderness made the young 
 man forget his anxiety. ' Did I startle you ? ' he said, sitting 
 down beside her; but he did not take her hand as he might have 
 done in their old frank friendship. 'I'm so sorry, but I couldn't 
 help telling you. I know you've been unconscious of it, but how 
 could a fellow help loving you, Lois ? And I couldn't go away 
 to Lockhaven, and not know if there was any chance for me. 
 Can you care, a little ? ' 
 
 She did not speak until he said again, his voice trembling with 
 a sudden hope, ' Won't you say one word, Lois ? ' 
 
 " Why, Giff,' said she, sitting up very straight, and looking at 
 him, her wet eyes shining in the darkness, ' you know I care I've 
 always cared, but not that way and and you don't Giff, you 
 don't really it's just a fancy.' 
 
 ' It is not a fancy,' he answered quietly. ' I knew I loved you
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 13 
 
 that first time I came home from college. But you were too 
 young ; it would not have been right. And then before I went 
 abroad, I tried to tell you once ; but I thought, from the way you 
 spoke, you did not care. So I didn't say anything more ; but I 
 love you, and I always shall.' 
 
 'Oh, Gifford,' Lois cried, with a voice full of distress, 'you 
 mustn't! Why, don't you see? You're just like my brother. 
 Oh, do please let us forget all this, and let's be just as we used 
 to be.' 
 
 'We cannot,' he said gently. 'But I won't make you un- 
 happy ; I won't speak if you tell me to be silent.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I do tell you to be silent;' she said in a relieved tone. 
 'I could not, Giff. So we'll just forget it. Promise rne you 
 will forget it. 1 
 
 He shook his head, with a slow smile. ' You must forget it, if 
 it will make you any happier ; but you cannot ask me to forget. 
 I am happier to remember. I shall always love you, Lois.' 
 
 'But you mustn't!' she cried again. ' Why cannot we have 
 just the old friendship ? Indeed indeed, it never could be any- 
 thing else ; and,' with a sudden break of tenderness in her voice, 
 ' I I really am so fond of you, Giff 1-' 
 
 Here the young man smiled a little bitterly. Friendship 
 separated them as inexorably as though it had been hate. 
 
 'And,' the girl went on, gaining confidence as she spoke, for 
 argument cleared the air of sentiment, in which she felt as awk- 
 ward as she was unkind, ' and you know there are a good many 
 things you don't like in me ; you think I have lots of faults you 
 know you do.' 
 
 ' I suppose I do, in a way,' he acknowledged ; ' but if I didn't 
 love you so much, Lois, I would not notice them.' 
 
 Lois held her head a little higher, but did not speak. He 
 watched her twist her fingers nervously together ; she had forgot- 
 ten to take off the little ring of braided grass. 
 
 'I am so sorry, Giff,' she said, to break the silence; 'oh, so 
 sorry. I I can't forgive myself.' 
 
 'There is nothing to forgive,' he answered gently ; 'and you 
 must not distress yourself by thinking that I am unhappy. I am 
 better, Lois, yes, and happier, because I love you. It shall be an 
 inspiration to me all my life, even if you should forget all about 
 me. But I want you to make me one promise, will you ? ' 
 
 She hesitated. ' If I can, Giff ; ' and then, with sudden trustful- 
 ness, she added, ' Yes, I will. What is it ? ' 
 
 She had risen, and was standing on the step above him. He 
 looked at her nervous little hands a moment, but did not touch 
 them, and then he said, ' If the time ever comes when you can 
 love me, tell me so. I ask you this, Lois, because I cannot bear 
 to distress you again by speaking words of love you do not want 
 to hear, and yet I can't help hoping ; and I shall always love you,
 
 I 4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 but it shall be In silence. So if the day ever comes when you can 
 love me, promise to tell me.' 
 
 'Oh yes,' she said, glad to grant something. 'But, Gifford, 
 dear, it will never come ; I must say that now.' 
 
 ' But you promise.' 
 
 'Yes,' she answered gravely, ' I promise.' 
 
 He looked at her steadily a moment. ' God bless you, dear ! ' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Oh, Gifford ! ' cried the girl, and with a sudden impulse she 
 stooped and kissed his forehead; then, half frightened at what 
 she had done, but not yet regretting it, she brushed past him, and 
 went swiftly up the path to the rectory. 
 
 The young man stood quite still a moment, with reverent head 
 bent as though he had received a benediction, and then turned 
 and followed her 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lois HOWE'S mind was in a strange tumult that night ; the 
 subtile thrill, which is neither pain nor pride, and yet seems 
 both, with which a young woman hears for the first time that 
 she is loved, stung through all her consciousness of grief at 
 having wounded her old friend. Tears came into her eyes 
 once, and yet she did not know why ; perhaps it was anger. 
 How could Gifford have been so foolish as to talk that way, and 
 make her have to say what she did ? The old friendship was 
 what she wanted. And then more tears came ; and for the first 
 time in her simple girlish life, Lois could not understand her 
 own heart. 
 
 It was because Helen had gone away, she said to herself, and 
 she was tired ; and that gave her the right to cry, with all her 
 heart, which was a great relief. 
 
 But Lois was young. The next morning, when she pushed 
 back her windows, she felt joy bubble up in her soul as unre- 
 strainedly as though she had never said a word to Gifford which 
 could make his heart ache. The resistance and spring of the 
 climbing roses made her lean out to fasten her lattices back, and 
 a shower of dew sprinkled her hair and bosom ; and at the sud- 
 den clear song of the robin under the eaves, she stood breathless 
 a moment to listen, with that simple gladness of living which is 
 perhaps a supreme unselfishness in its entire unconsciousness of 
 individual joy. 
 
 But like the rest of the world, Lois found that such moments do 
 not last ; the remembrance of the night before forced itself upon 
 her, and she turned to go downstairs, with a troubled face. 
 
 Of course there is plenty to do the day after a wedding, and
 
 JOHN WARD, PRfeACHER. 15 
 
 Lois was glad to have the occupation ; it was a relief to be busy. 
 
 Ashurst ladies always washed the breakfast things themselves ; 
 no length of service made it seem proper to trust the old blue 
 china and the delicate glass to the servants. So Lois wiped her 
 cups and saucers, and then standing on a chair in the china- 
 closet, put the desert plates with the fine gilt pattern borders, 
 which had been used yesterday, on the very back of the top 
 shelf, in such a quick decided way, that Jean trembled for their 
 safety. 
 
 The rectory dining-room was low studded, and lighted by one 
 wide latticed window, which had a cushioned seat, with a full 
 valance of flowered chintz ; the dimity curtains were always 
 pushed back, for Dr. Howe was fond of sunshine. In the open 
 fire-place, between the brasses, stood a blue jug filled with white 
 lilacs, and the big punch-bowl on the sideboard was crowded with 
 roses. There were antlers over the doors, and the pictures on the 
 walls were of game and fish, and on the floor was a bearskin, 
 which was one of the rector's trophies. 
 
 Lois stood by a side-table which held a great j>^n of hot 
 water ; she had a long-handled mop in her hand and a soft 
 towel over her arm, and she washed and wiped some wine- 
 glasses with slender twisted stems and sparkling bowls, and then 
 put them on their shelves in the corner closet, where they 
 gleamed and glittered in the sunshine, pouring through the open 
 window. 
 
 She did not work as fast now, for things were nearly in order, 
 and she dreaded having nothing to do ; her aunt, Mrs. Dale, 
 would have said she was dawdling, but Miss Deborah Woodhouse. 
 who had come over to the rectory early to see if she could be of 
 use, said haste was not genteel, and it was a pleasure to see a 
 young person who was deliberate in her movements. 
 
 ' But you must let me help you, my dear,' she added, taking 
 off her gloves, and pulling the fingers straight and smooth. 
 
 'Indeed, Miss Deborah, there is nothing more to do,' Lois 
 answered, smiling, as she closed the brass-hinged doors of the 
 corner closet. 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said the other absently, ' I do trust dear Gifford's 
 china-closet will be kept in proper order. Your shelves do credit 
 to Jean's housekeeping; indeed they do ! And I hope he'll have 
 a maid who knows how to put the lavender among the linen ; 
 there's always a right and a wrong way. I have written out 
 directions for her, of course, but if there was time I would write 
 and ask Helen to see to it.' 
 
 ' Why, Giff says he won't get off for a fortnight,' Lois said, 
 with sudden surprise. 
 
 ' I thought so,' responded Miss Deborah, shaking her head, so 
 that the little gray curls just above her ears trembled ; ' I thought 
 so, too ; but last night he said he was going at once. At least,' 
 
 B
 
 16 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 stopping to correct herself, ' dear Ruth and I think it best for him 
 to go. I have everything ready for him, so no doubt he'll be off 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Lois was silent. 
 
 ' The fact is,' said Miss Deborah, lowering her voice, ' Gifford 
 does not seem perfectly happy. Of course you would not be apt 
 to observe it ; but those things don't escape my eyes. He's been 
 depressed for some time.' 
 
 ' I hadn't noticed it,' said Lois faintly. 
 
 ' Oh no, certainly not, answered Miss Deborah ; ' it would be 
 scarcely proper that you should, considering the reason ; but it's 
 no surprise to me ; I always thought that when they grew old 
 enough, dear Giff and Helen would care for-one another ; and so 
 I don't wonder that he has been feeling some disappointment 
 since he came home, though I had written him she was engaged. 
 Much too young she was, too, in my judgment.' 
 
 Lois' astonishment was so great that she dropped her mop, and 
 Miss Deborah looked at her reprovingly over her glasses. ' Oh 
 yes, there's no doubt Gifford felt it,' she said, ' but he'll get over 
 it. Those things do not last with men. You know I wouldn't 
 speak of this to anyone but you ; but he's just like a brother 
 to you.' 
 
 'Yes, exactly like a brother,' Lois said hurriedly, 'and 1 
 think I should have known it" if it had been had been that way.' 
 
 ' No,' said Miss Deborah, putting down the last glass, ' I think 
 not. I only guessed it myself last night ; it is all over now ; 
 those things never last. And very likely he will meet some nice 
 girl in Lockhaven who will make him happy ; indeed, I shouldn't 
 wonder if we heard he was taken with somebody at once hearts 
 are often caught on the rebound! I don't know,' Miss Deborah 
 added candidly, 'how lasting an attachment formed on a 
 previous disappointment might be ; and, dear me ! he does feel 
 her marriage very much.' 
 
 Here Sally came in to take away the pan and mop, and Lois 
 looked about to see if there was anything more to do. She was 
 very anxious to bring Miss Deborah's conversation to an end, and 
 grateful that Jean should come and ask her to take some silver, 
 borrowed for yesterday's festivities, back to Mrs. Dale. 
 
 ' It's these spoons,' the old woman explained to Miss Deborah, 
 ' Mrs. Dale, she lent us a dozen. I've counted 'em all myself; I 
 wouldn't trust 'em to that Sally. If there was a hair's difference, 
 Mrs. Dale would know it 'fore she set her eyes on them, let alone 
 havin' one of our spoons 'stead of hers.' 
 
 Miss Deborah nodded her head. ' Very likely, Jean,' she said ; 
 ' I've not a doubt of it. I'm going now, and Miss Lois will walk 
 along with me. Yes, Mrs. Dale would see if anything was wrong, 
 you can depend upon it.' 
 
 They set out together, Lois listening absently to Miss Deborah's
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 17 
 
 chatter about the wedding-, and vaguely glad when at the gate of 
 her aunt's house she could leave her with a pretty bow, which was 
 half a curtsy. 
 
 There was a depressing stateliness about Dale House, which 
 was felt as soon as the stone gateway, with its frowning sphinxes, 
 was passed. The long shutters on either side of the front door 
 were always solemnly bowed, for Mrs. Dale did not approve of 
 faded carpets, and the roof of the verandah, supported by great 
 white pillars, darkened the second-storey windows. There was no 
 tangle of vines about its dark walls of cream-coloured brick with 
 white trimmings, not even trees to soften the stare with which it 
 surveyed the dusty highway ; and the formal precision of the place 
 was unrelieved by flowers, except for a stiff design in foliage on 
 the perfectly-kept lawn. 
 
 On the eastern side of the house, above the deep windows of Mr. 
 Dale's sanctum, ivy had been permitted to grow, and there were a 
 few larch and beech trees, and a hedge to hide the stables ; but 
 these were special concessions to Mr. Dale. 
 
 'I do dislike,' said Mrs. Dale 'I do dislike untidy gardens; 
 flowers, and vines, and trees, all crowded together, and weeds, too, 
 if the truth's told. I never could understand how the Woodhouse 
 girls could endure that forlorn old place of theirs. But, then, a 
 woman never does make a really good manager unless she's 
 married.' 
 
 Lois found her aunt in the old parlour, playing Patience. She 
 was sitting in a straight-backed chair for Mrs. Dale scorned the 
 weakness of a rocking-chair before a spindle-legged table, 
 covered with green baize and with a cherry-wood rim inlaid with 
 mother-of-pearl and ivory. On it were thirteen groups of cards, 
 arranged with geometrical exactness at invervals of half an inch. 
 
 ' Well, Lois,' she said, as her niece entered. ' Oh, you have 
 brought the spoons back ! ' But she interrupted herself, her eye- 
 brows knitted and her lower lip thrust out, to lift a card slowly 
 and decide if she should move it. Then she glanced at the girl 
 over her glasses. ' I'm just waiting here, because I must go into 
 the kitchen soon, and look at my cake. That Betty of mine must 
 needs go and see her sick mother to-day, and I have to look after 
 things. But I cannot be idle. I declare, there is something 
 malicious in the way in which relatives of servants fall ill ! ' 
 
 She stopped here long enough to count the spoons, and then 
 began her game again. She was able, however, to talk while she 
 played, and pointed out various things which did not ' go quite 
 right ' at the wedding. 
 
 The parlour at Dale House was as exact and dreary as the gar- 
 den. The whole room suggested to Lois, watching her aunt play 
 solitaire, and the motes dancing in the narrow streaks of sunshine 
 which fell between the bowed shutters, and across the drab carpet 
 to the white wainscoting on the other side, the pictw** iu th
 
 iS JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Harry and Lucy books, or the parlour where, on its high mantel- 
 shelf, Rosamond kept her purple jar. 
 
 She wondered vaguely, as Mrs. Dale moved her cards carefully 
 about, whether her aunt had ever been ' bothered ' about anything. 
 Helen's marriage seemed only an incident to Mrs. Dale ; the 
 wedding and the weather, the dresses and the presents which had 
 been a breathless interest to Lois, were apparently of no more 
 importance to the older woman than the building up of a suit. 
 
 ' Well," Mrs. Dale said, when she had exhausted the subject of 
 the wedding. ' I am sure I hope it will turn out well, but I really 
 can't say. Ever since I've seen this Mr. Ward I've somehow 
 felt that it was an experiment. In the first place, he's a man of 
 weak will I'm sure of that, because he seems perfectly ready to 
 give way to Helen in everything ; and that isn't as it ought to be 
 the man should rule ! And then, besides that, whoever heard 
 of his people ? Come from the south somewhere, I believe, but he 
 couldn't tell me the first name of his great grand-father. I doubt 
 if he ever had any, between ourselves. Still, I hope for the best. 
 And I'm sure I trust,' she added, with an uneasy recollection of 
 the cake in the oven, ' she won't have trouble with servants. I 
 declare, the happiness of married life is in the hands of your cook. 
 If Betty had not gone off this morning, I should have come over 
 to the rectory to help you. There's so much to do after a wed- 
 ding.' 
 
 ' Oh, you're very kind,' said Lois, 'but I think Jean and I can 
 ee to things. Miss Deborah came to help me, but we were really 
 quite in order.' 
 
 ' Miss Deborah,' said Mrs. Dale. ' Well, I'm glad if she could 
 be of any use; she really is so unpractical. But it's lucky you 
 have Jean. Just wait till you get a house of your own, young 
 lady, and then you'll understand what the troubles of house- 
 keeping are.' 
 
 ' I'm in no haste for a house of my own,' said the girl, smiling. 
 'That's because you're a foolish child,' returned Mrs. Dale, 
 promptly. ' You'd be a great deal happier if you were married 
 and settled. Though I must say there is very little chance of it, 
 unless you go away to make a visit, as Helen did. There is only 
 one young man in Ashurst; and now he's going. But for that 
 matter, Gifford Woodhouse and you are just like brother and 
 sister. Yes, Lois, I must say, I wish I could see you in a home 
 of your home. No woman is really happy unless she's married.' 
 ' I think I'm the best judge of that,' Lois answered. ' No girl 
 could be happier than I am ; to hear father call me his Tyrant ? 
 I don't want anything better than that.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' said Mrs. Dale decidedly. ' If you had a husband 
 to call you his Tyrant, it would be a thousand times better. I 
 declare, I always think, when we pray for ' all who are destitute 
 ad oppressed,' it means the old maids. I'm sure the ' fatherless
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. if 
 
 children and widows ' are thought of, and why not the poor, for- 
 lorn, unmarried women ? Indeed, I think Archibald is almost 
 selfish to keep you at home as he does. My girls would never 
 have been settled if I had let them stay in Ashurst. I've a great 
 mind to tell your father he isn't doing his duty. You ought to 
 have a winter in town.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I hope you won't tell him anything of the sort ! ' cried 
 Lois. ' I wouldn't leave Ashurst for the world, and I'm perfectly 
 happy, I assure you ! ' 
 
 ' Don't be so silly,' said Mrs. Dale, calmly, 'or think that no 
 one loves your father but yourself. He was my brother thirty- 
 four years before he was your father. I only spoke for your good, 
 and his too, for of course he would be happier if you were.' 
 
 She stopped here to gather her cards up, and deal them out 
 again in little piles, and also to reprove Lois, who had made an 
 impatient gesture at her words. 
 
 ' These little restless ways you have are very unpleasant,' she 
 said; 'my girls never did such things. I don't know where you 
 get your unladylike habits; not from your father, I'm sure. I 
 suppose it's because you don't go out at all ; you never see any- 
 body. There, that reminds me. I have had a letter from 
 Arabella Forsythe. I don't know whether you remember the 
 Forsythes ; they used to visit here. Let me see, fifteen years ago 
 was the last time, I think. Well, they are going to take the empty 
 house near us for the summer. She was a Robinson ; not really 
 Ashurst people you know not born here ; but quite respectable. 
 Her father was a button manufacturer, and he left her a great 
 deal of money. She married a person called Forsythe, who has 
 since died. She has one boy, about your age, who'll be immensely 
 rich one of these days ; he is not married. Heaven knows when 
 Ashurst will see an eligible young man again,' she added ; and 
 then, absently, ' Eight on a nine, and there's a two-spot for my 
 clubs ! ' 
 
 ' I wonder if I remember Mrs. Forsythe ? ' Lois said, wrinkling 
 her pretty forehead in a puzzled way. ' Wasn't she a tall, thin 
 lady, with a pleasant face ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' answered Mrs. Dale, nodding her sleek head; 'yes, 
 rather pleasant, but melancholy. And no wonder, talking about 
 her aches and pains all the time ! But that's where the button- 
 manufacturer snowed. She was devoted to that boy s>f hers, and 
 a very nice child he was, too.' She looked sharply at her niece 
 as she spoke. 
 
 ' I remember him,' Lois said. ' I saw Gifford shake him once ; 
 ' he was too little to lick,' he said. 
 
 ' I'm afraid Gifford is very rough and unmannerly sometimes,' 
 Mrs. Dale said. ' But then, those Woodhouse girls couldn't b 
 expected to know how to bring up a big boy.' 
 
 ' I don't think Gift is unmannerly,' cried Lois.
 
 20 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Well, net exactly,' Mrs. Dale admitted; 'but of course he 
 isn't like Mr. Forsythe. Gifford hasn't had the opportunities, or 
 the money, you know.' 
 
 ' I don t think money is of much importance/ said Lois. ' I 
 don't think money has anything to do with manners.' 
 
 'Oh, you don't know anything about it! " cried Mrs. Dale. 
 'There ! you made me make a mistake, and lose my game. Pray 
 do not be silly, Lois, and talk in that emphatic way ; have a little 
 more repose. I mean this young man is he is very different from 
 anybody you have ever seen in Ashurst. But there is no use try- 
 ing to tell you anything ; you always keep your own opinion. 
 You are exactly like a bag of feathers. You punch it and think 
 you've made an impression, and it comes out just where it went 
 in.' 
 
 Lois laughed, and rose to go. 
 
 'Tell your father what I said about a winter in town,' Mrs. 
 Dale called after her ; and then, gathering her cards up, and rap- 
 ping them on the table to get the edges straight, she said to her- 
 self, ' But perhaps it won't be necessary to have a winter in town ! ' 
 And there was a grim sort of smile on her face when, a moment 
 later, Mr. Dale, in a hesitating way, pushed the door open, and 
 entered. 
 
 ' I thought I heard Lois' voice, my dear,' he said, with a depre- 
 cating expression. 
 
 He wore his flowered cashmere dressing-gown, tied about the 
 waist with a heavy silk cord and tassel, and a soft red silk hand- 
 kerchief was spread over his white hair to protect his head from 
 possible draughts in the long hall. Just now one finger was 
 between the pages of 'A Sentimental Journey.' 
 
 'She was here,' said Mrs. Dale, still smiling. 'I was telling 
 her the Forsythes were coming. It is an excellent thing ; nothing 
 could be better.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' asked Mr. Dale. 
 
 ' Mean ? ' cried his wife. ' What should I be apt to mean ? 
 You have no sense about such things, Henry.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said her husband, meekly, ' you want them to fall in 
 love ? ' 
 
 'Well, really,' she answered, leaning back in her chair, and 
 tapping her foot impatiently, ' I do not see how my husband can 
 be so silly. One would think I was a match-maker, and no one 
 detests anything of that sort as I do no one ! Fall in love, in- 
 deed ! I think the expression is positively indelicate, Henry. Of 
 course, if Lois should be well married, I should be grateful, and 
 if it should be Mr. Forsythe, I should only feel I had done my 
 duty in urging Arabella to take a house in Ashurst.' 
 ' Oh, you urged her ? ' 
 
 ' I wrote her Ashurst was very pleasant,' Mrs. Dale acknow- 
 "e^ ' and it was considered healthy. (I understand Arabella !)
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 31 
 
 I knew her son was going abroad later in the summer, but I 
 
 thought, if he once got here ' 
 
 Ah,' responded Mr. Dale. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JOHN and HELEN had not gone at once to Lockhaven ; they spent 
 a fortnight in wandering about through the mountains on horse- 
 back. The sweet June weather, the crystal freshness of the air, 
 and the melodious stillness of the woods and fields, wrapped those 
 first heavenly days of entire possession in a mist of joy. After- 
 wards, John Ward felt that it had blinded the eyes of his soul, 
 and drifted between him and his highest duty ; he had not been 
 able to turn away from the gladness of living in her presence to 
 think of what had been, during all their engagement, an anxiety' 
 and grief, and, he had promised himself, should be his earliest 
 thought when she became his wife : the unsaved condition of her 
 soul. 
 
 When he had first seen her, before he knew he loved her, he 
 had realized with distress and terror how far she was from what 
 he called truth ; how indifferent to what was the most important 
 thing in the whole world to him spiritual knowledge. He listened 
 to what she said of her uncle's little Fpiscopal church in Ashurst, 
 and heard her laugh good-naturedly about the rector's sermons, 
 and then thought of the doctrines which were preached from his 
 own pulpit in Lockhaven. 
 
 Helen had never listened to sermons full of the hopefulness of 
 predestination ; she frankly said she did not believe that Adam 
 was her federal head and representative, and that she, therefore, 
 was born in sin. 'I'm a sinner,' she said, smiling; 'we're all 
 miserable sinners, you know, Mr. Ward, and perhaps we all sin 
 in original ways ; but I don't believe in original sin.' 
 
 When he spoke of eternal punishment, she looked at him with 
 grave surprise in her calm brown eyes. ' How can you think such 
 a thing ? ' she asked. ' It seems to me a libel upon the goodness 
 of God.' 
 
 ' But justice, Miss Jeffrey,' he said anxiously; ' and surely we 
 must acknowledge the righteousness and justice of God's judg- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' If you mean that God would send a soul to hell for ever, if 
 you call that His judgment, it seems to me unrighteous and unjust. 
 Truly, I can think of no greater heresy, Mr. Ward, than to deny 
 the love of God ; and is not that what you do when yoy say He is 
 more cruel than even men could be ? ' 
 
 4 But the Bible says ' he began, when she interrupted him. 
 
 ' It does not seem worth while to say, ' the Bible says,' ' she
 
 22 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 said, smiling a little as she looked into his troubled face. 'The 
 Bible was the history, the poetry, the politics of the Jews, as well 
 as their code of ethics and their liturgy ; so that, unless we are 
 prepared to believe in its verbal inspiration, I don't see how we 
 can say, as an argument, 'the Bible says.' ' 
 
 ' And do you not believe in its verbal inspiration ? ' he said 
 slowly. 
 
 ' No,' Helen answered, 'I could not.' 
 
 It was not for John Ward to ask how she had been taught, or 
 to criticise another minister's influence, but as he walked home, 
 with anxious, downcast eyes, he wondered what Dr. Howe's belief 
 could be, and bow it had been possible for her soul to have been 
 so neglected. This woman, whose gracious, beautiful nature 
 stirred him with profound admiration, was in darkness of unbelief ; 
 she had never been taught the truth. 
 
 As he said this to himself, John Ward knew, with sudden, 
 passionate tenderness, that he loved her. Yet it was months before 
 he came and told her. What right had he to love her ? he said 
 to himself, when he knelt and grayed for her soul's salvation : she 
 was an unbeliever ; she had never come to Christ, or she would 
 have known the truth. His duty to his people confronted him with 
 its uncompromising claim that the woman whom he should bring 
 to help him in his labours among them should be a Christian, and 
 he struggled to tear this love out of his heart. 
 
 John Ward's was an intellect that could not hold a belief sub- 
 ject to the mutations of time and circumstances. Once acknow- 
 ledged by his soul, its growth was ended; it hardened into a creed, 
 in which he rested in complete satisfaction. It was not that he 
 did not desire more light ; it was simply that he could not conceive 
 that there might be more light. And granting his promise that 
 the Bible was directly inspired by God, he was not illogical in 
 holding with a pathetic and patient faith to the doctrines of the 
 Presbyterian Church. 
 
 Helen's belief was as different as was her mode of thought. 
 It was perhaps a development of her own nature, rather than 
 the result of her uncle's teaching, though she had been guided 
 by him spiritually ever since he had taken her to his own home, 
 on the death of her parents, when she was a little child. ' Be 
 a good girl, my dear,' Dr. Howe would say. So she learned 
 her catechism, and was confirmed just before she went to 
 boarding-school, as was the custom with Ashurst young women, 
 and sung in the choir, while Mr. Denner drew wonderful 
 chords from the organ, and she was a very well-bred and 
 modest young woman, taking her belief for granted, and giv- 
 ing no more thought to the problems of theology than girls 
 usually do. 
 
 But this was before she met John Ward. After those first an- 
 xious questions of his, Helen began to understand how slight wag
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 23 
 
 her hold upon religion. But she did not talk about her frame of 
 mind, nor dignify the questions which began to come by calling 
 them doubts ; how could they be doubts, when she had never 
 known what she had believed ? So, by degrees, she built up a 
 belief for herself. 
 
 Love of good was really love of God in her mind. Heaven 
 meant righteousness, and hell an absence of what was best and 
 truest ; but Helen did not feel that a soul must wait for death be- 
 fore it was overtaken by hell. It was very simple and very short, 
 this creed of hers : yet it was the doorway through which grief 
 and patience were to come the sorrow of the world, the mystery 
 of sin, and the hope of that far-off divine event. 
 
 There was no detail of religious thought with Helen Jeffrey ; 
 ideas presented themselves to her mind with a comprehensiveness 
 and a simplicity which would have been impossible to Mr. Ward. 
 But at this time he knew nothing of the mental processes that 
 were leading her out of the calm, unreasoning content of child- 
 hood into a mist of doubt, which, as he looked into the future, 
 seemed to darken into night. He was struggling with his con- 
 science, and asking himself if he had any right to seek her love. 
 
 ' Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,' he said to 
 himself. To his mind, Helen's lack of belief in certain doctrines 
 for it had hardly crystalized into unbelief was sin ; and sin 
 was punishable by eternal death. Here was his escape from con- 
 science. Should this sweet soul, that he loved more than his 
 own, be lost ? No ; surely it was a sacred right and duty to win 
 her heart and marry her, that he might take her away from the 
 atmosphere of religious indifference in which she lived, and guide 
 her to light and life. 
 
 Love won the day. ' I will save her soul ! ' he said to himself ; 
 and with this purpose always before him to hide a shadow, which 
 whispered so he thought ' This is a sin,' he asked her to be his 
 wife. 
 
 He did not have to plead long. ' I think I have always loved 
 you,' Helen said, looking up into his eyes ; and John was so happy 
 that every thought of anxiety for her soul was swallowed up in 
 gratitude to God for her love. 
 
 It was one midsummer afternoon that he reached Ashurst; he 
 went at once to the rectory, though with no thought of asking 
 Dr. Howe's permission to address his niece. It seemed to John 
 as though there were only their two souls in the great sunny 
 world that day, and his love-making was as simple and candid as 
 his life. 
 
 'I've come to tell you I love you,' he said, with no preface, ex- 
 cept to take her hands in his. 
 
 He did not see her often during their engagement, nor did he 
 write to her of his hopes and fears for her ; he would wait until 
 6he was quite away from Ashurst carelessness, he thought ; and,
 
 24 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 besides his letters were so full of love, there was no room for theo- 
 logy. But he justified silence by saying when they were in their 
 own home he should show her the beauty of revealed religion ; 
 she would understand the majesty of the truth ; and their little 
 house, which was to be sacred as the shrine of human love, should 
 become the very gate of heaven. 
 
 It was a very little house, this parsonage. Its sharp pitch roof 
 was pulled well down over its eyes, which were four square, 
 shining windows, divided into twenty-four small panes of glass, 
 so full of bubbles and dimples that they made the passer-by seem 
 sadly distorted, and the spire of the church opposite have a strange 
 bend in it. 
 
 John Ward's study had not a great many books. He could 
 not offord them, for one reason ; but, with a row of Edwards' and 
 some of Dr. Samuel Hopkins' sermons, and pamphlets by Dr. 
 Emmons, he could spare all but one or two volumes of Hodge and 
 Shedd, who, after all, but reiterate, in a form suited to a weaker 
 age, the teachings of Dr. Jonathan Edwards. 
 
 The dim Turkey carpet was worn down to the nap in a little 
 path in front of his book-shelves, where he used to stand absorbed 
 in reading, or where he walked backwards and forwards, thinking 
 out his dark and threatening sermons. For before his marriage, 
 John preached the Law rather than the Gospel. 
 
 4 So I am going to hear you preach on Sunday ? ' Helen said, 
 the Saturday morning after their return. 'It's odd that I've 
 never heard you, and we've known each other more than a 
 year.' 
 
 He was at his desk, and she rested her hand lightly on his 
 shoulder. He put down his pen and turned to look into her face. 
 ' Perhaps you will not like my sermons ; ' there was a little wist- 
 fulness in his dark eyes as he spoke. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I shall,' she said, with smiling certainty. ' Sermons 
 are pretty much alike, don't you think ? I know some of uncle 
 Archie's almost by heart. Really, there is only one thing to say, 
 and you have to keep or saying it over and over.' 
 
 ' We cannot say it too often,' John answered. 'The choice be- 
 tween eternal life and eternal death should sound in the ears of 
 unconverted men every day of their lives.' 
 
 Helen shook her head. ' I didn't mean that, John. I was 
 thinking of the beauty of holiness.' And then she added, with a 
 smile, ' I hope you don't preach any awful doctrines ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes the truth is terrible, dear,' he said gently. 
 
 But when she had left him to write his sermon he sat a long 
 while thinking. Surely she was not ready yet to hear such words 
 as he had meant to speak. He would put this sermon away for 
 some future Sunday, when the truth would be less of a shock to 
 her. ' She must come to the knowledge of God slowly,' he 
 thought. ' It must not burst upon her ; it might only drive her
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 5 
 
 further from the light to hear of justice as well as mercy. She is . 
 not able to bear it yet.' 
 
 So he took some fresh paper, and wrote, instead of his lurid text 
 from Hebrews, ' Ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the 
 Lord Almighty.' 
 
 But when Helen went out of the study she thought very little of 
 sermons or doctrines. John filled her mind, and she had no room 
 for wondering about his beliefs ; he could believe anything he 
 chose ; he was hers and that was enough. 
 
 She went into her small kitchen, the smile still lingering upon 
 her lips, and through its open doorway she saw her little maid, 
 Alfaretta, out in the sunny garden at the back of the house. 
 She had an armful of fresh white tea-towels, which had been 
 put out to dry on the row of gooseberry-bushes at the end of 
 the garden, and was coming up the path, singing cheerily, 
 with all the force of her strong young lungs. Helen caught the 
 words as she drew near : 
 
 'My thoughts on awful subjects roll, 
 
 Damnation and the dead, 
 What horrors seize my guilty soul, 
 Upon the dying bed ! 
 
 ' Where endless crowds of sinners lie, 
 And darkness makes their chains, 
 Tortured with keen despair they cry, 
 Yet wait for fiercer pains ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, Alfaretta ! ' her mistress cried, in indignant astonishment. 
 ' How can you say such terrible words ! ' Alfaretta stood still, in 
 open-mouthed amazement, an injured look in her good-natured 
 blue eyes. The incongruity of this rosy-faced, happy girl, stand- 
 ing in the sunshine, with all the scents and sounds of a July day 
 about her, and singing in a cheerful voice these hopeless words, 
 almost made Helen smile ; but she added gravely : ' I hope you 
 will not sing that again. I do not like it.' 
 
 ' But, ma'am but, Mrs. Ward,' said the girl, plainly hurt at 
 the reproof, ' I was practising. I belong to the choir.' 
 
 Alfaretta had dropped the tea-towels, hot with sunshine and 
 smelling of clover-blossoms, upon her well-scoured dresser, and 
 then turned and looked at her mistress reproachfully. ' I don't 
 know what I am going to do if I can't practise,' she said. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you sing that in church ? ' cried Helen. 
 ' Where do you go ? ' 
 
 'Why, I go to your church,' said the injured Alfaretta 'to Mr. 
 Ward's. We're to have that hymn on Sabbath ' 
 
 ' Oh, there must be some mistake,' remonstrated Helen. ' I'm 
 sure Mr. Ward did not notice that verse '
 
 26 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' But it's all like that ; it says ' 
 
 ' Don't tell me any more,' Helen said. ' I've heard enough. I 
 had no idea such awful words were written.' Then she stopped 
 abruptly, feeling her position as the preacher's wife in a way of 
 which she had never thought. 
 
 Alfaretta's father was an elder in John's church, which gave her 
 a certain ease in speaking to her mistress that did not mean the 
 slightest disrespect. 
 
 'Is it the words of it you don't like?' said Alfaretta, rather 
 relieved, since her singing had not been criticised. 
 
 'Yes,' Helen answered, 'it is the words. Don't you see how 
 dreadful they are ? ' 
 
 Alfaretta stood with her plump red hands on her hips, and re- 
 garded Mrs. Ward with interest. ' I hadn't ever thought of 'em,' 
 she said. 'Yes, ma'am. I suppose they are awful bad,' and 
 swinging back and forth on her heels, her eyes fixed meditatively 
 on the ceiling, she said 
 
 ' " Then swift and dreadful she descends 
 Down to the fiery coast, 
 Amongst abominable fiends " 
 
 Yes, that does sound dreadful. Worst of it is, you get used to 'em 
 and don't notice 'em much. Why, I've sung that hymn dozens 
 of times in church, and never thought of the meaning. And there's 
 Tom Davis, he drinks most of the time, but he has sung once or 
 twice in the choir (though he ain't been ever converted yet, and 
 he is really terribly wicked ; don't do nothing but swear and 
 drink). But I don't suppose he noticed the words of this hymn 
 though I know he sung it for he keeps right on in his sin ; and 
 he couldn't, you know, Mrs. Ward, if that hymn was true to him.' 
 
 Helen left Alfaretta to reflect upon the hymn, and went back to 
 the study ; but the door was shut, and she heard the scratching of 
 her husband's pen. She turned away, for she had lived in a 
 minister'shousehold.andhad been brought up to knowthat nothing 
 must disturb a man who was writing a sermon. But John had 
 hurriedly opened the door. 
 
 ' Did you want to speak to me, dearest ? ' he said, standing at 
 the foot of the stairs, his pen still between his fingers. ' I heard 
 your step.' 
 
 ' But I must not interrupt you,' she answered, smiling at him 
 over the balusters. 
 
 ' You never could interrupt me. Come into the study and tell me 
 what it is.' 
 
 ' Only to ask you about a hymn which Alfaretta says is to be 
 sung on Sunday,' Helen said. ' Of course there is some mistake 
 about it, but Alfaretta says the choir has been practising it, and I 
 know you would not wa.nt it.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 27 
 
 ' Do you remember what it was, dear ? ' 
 
 ' I can't quote it/ Helen answered, ' but it began something 
 about ' damnation and the dead.' ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I know; ' and then he added slowly, 'why don't you 
 like it, Helen ? ' 
 
 She looked at him in astonishment. 'Why, it's absurd; it's 
 horrible.' 
 
 John was silent for a few moments, and then he sighed : ' We 
 will not sing it, dear.' 
 
 ' But, John,' cried she, ' how could such a hymn ever have been 
 printed ? Of course I know people used to think such things, but 
 I had no idea anybody thought of hell in that literal way to-day, 
 or that hell itself was a real belief to very many people. However^ 
 if such hymns are printed, the doctrine is still taught ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' John said, 'it is as real to-day as God Himself as it 
 always has been and must be ; and it is believed by Christians as 
 earnestly as ever. We cannot help it, Helen.' 
 
 Helen looked at him thoughtfully. ' It is very terrible ; but oh, 
 John, what sublime faith, to be able to believe God capable of 
 such awful cruelty, and yet to love and trust Him ! ' 
 
 John's face grew suddenly bright. ' ' Though He slay me, yet 
 will I trust Him,' ' he said, with the simplicity of assurance. But 
 when he went back again to his sermon, he was convinced that he 
 had been wise to put off for a little while the instruction in doctrine 
 of which his wife's soul stood in such sore need. 
 
 ' I was right,' he thought; 'the Light must come gradually, 
 the blaze of truth at once would blind her to the perfection of 
 justice. She would not be able to understand there was mercy, 
 too.' 
 
 So the choir was told the hymn would be ' Welcome, sweet day 
 of rest,' which, after all, was much better suited to the sermon. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHY the Misses Woodhouse, and Mr. Bale, and Mr. Denner 
 should go to the rectory for their Saturday night games of whist was 
 never very clear to any of them. The rector did not understand 
 the game, he said, and it was perhaps to learn that he watched 
 the play so closely. Lois, of course, had no part in it, for Mrs. 
 Dale was always ready to take a hand, if one of the usual four 
 failed. Mrs. Dale was too impatient to play whist from choice, 
 but she enjoyed the consciousness of doing a favour. 
 
 Lois' only occupation was to be useful. Ashurst was strangely 
 behind the times in thinking it was a privilege, as it ought to be 
 a pleasure, for young people to wait upon their elders and betters. 
 
 True, Mr. Denner, with old-fashioned politeness, always offered
 
 28 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 his services when Lois went for the wine and cake at close of the 
 rubber ; but the little gentleman would have been conscious of 
 distinct surprise ^ad she accepted them, for Lois, in his eyes, was 
 still a little girl. This was, perhaps, because Mr. Denner, at 
 sixty-two, did not realize that he had ceased to be, as he would 
 have expressed it ' a gentleman in middle life.' He had no land- 
 marks of great emotions to show him how far the sleepy years had 
 carried him from his youth ; and life in Ashurst was very placid. 
 There were no cases to try ; property rarely went out of families 
 which had held it when Mr. Denner's father wrote their wills and 
 drew up their deeds in the same brick office which his son occu- 
 pied now, and it was a point of decency and honour that wills 
 should not be disputed. 
 
 Yet Mr. Denner felt that his life was full of occupation. He 
 had his practising in the dim organ-loft of St. Michael's and All 
 Angels, and every day, when dinner was over, his little nephew 
 slipped from his chair, and stood with his hands behind him to 
 recite his rego regere ; then there were always his flies and rods to 
 keep in order against the season when he and the rector started 
 on long fishing tramps ; and in the evenings, when Willie had 
 gone to bed, and his cook was reading ' The Death-beds of 
 Eminent Saints,' by the kitchen fire, Mr. Denner worked out 
 chess problems by himself in his library, or read Cavendish, and 
 thought of next Saturday ; and besides all this, he went once a 
 week to Mercer, and sat waiting for clients in a dark back office, 
 while he studied his weekly papei. 
 
 But though there seemed plenty to do, sometimes Mr. Denner 
 would sigh, and say to himself that it was somewhat lonely, and 
 Mary was certainly severe. He supposed that was because she 
 had no mistress to keep an eye on her. 
 
 These weekly games of whist were a great pleasure to him. 
 The library at the rectory was cheerful, and there was a feeling of 
 importance in playing a game at which the rector and Mrs. Dale 
 only looked on. It was understood that the gentlemen might 
 smoke, though the formality of asking permission of the ladies, 
 and being urged by them, always took place. Mr. Denner's 
 weekly remark to the Misses Woodhouse in this connection, as he 
 stood ready to strike a match on the hearth of the big fireplace, 
 was well known. ' When ladies,' he would say, bowing to each 
 sister in turn, with his little heels close together and his toes 
 turned well out ' when ladies are so charitable to our vices, we 
 will not reform, lest we lose the pleasure of being forgiven.' Mr. 
 Denner smoked a cigar, but Mr. Dale always drew from his 
 pocket a quaint silver pipe, very long and slender, and with an 
 odd suggestion of its owner about it ; for he was tall and frail and 
 his thin white hair, combed back from his mild face, had a silvery 
 gleam in the lamplight. Often the pipe would be between the 
 pages of a book, from the leaves of which Lois would have to shake
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 9 
 
 the loose ashes before putting it back in his pocket. 
 
 The whist party sat in high-backed chairs about a square 
 mahogany table, whose shining top betokened much muscle on 
 the part of Sally. At each corner was a candle in a tall silver 
 candlestick, becajse Miss Deborah objected to a shadow on the 
 board, which would have been cast by a hanging lamp. The 
 August night was hot, and doors and windows were open for any 
 breath of air that might be stirring in the dark garden. Max 
 had retreated to the empty fireplace, finding the bricks cooler 
 than the carpeted floor. All was very still, save when the 
 emphatic sweep of a trump card made the candle flames flicker. 
 But the deals were a diversion. Then the rector, who had tip- 
 toed about, to look over the shoulder of each player, might say, 
 ' You didn't answer Miss Ruth's call, Denner; ' or ' Bless my soul, 
 Dale, what made you play a knave on that second hand round ? 
 You ought not to send a boy to take a trick, sir ! ' 
 
 It was in one of these pauses that Mrs. Dale, drawing a shining 
 knitting-needle out of her work, said, ', ' I suppose you got my 
 message this morning, brother, that Arabella Forsythe didn't 
 feel well enough to come to-night ? I told her she should have 
 Henry's place, but she said she wasn't equal to excitement.' Mrs. 
 Dale gave a careful laugh ; she did not wish to make Mrs. For- 
 sythe absurd in the eyes of one person present. 
 
 ' You offered her my place, my dear ? ' Mr. Dale asked, turning 
 his blue eyes upon her. ' I didn't know that, but it was quite 
 right.' 
 
 ' Of course it was,' replied Mrs. Dale decidedly, while the rector 
 said, ' Yes, young Forsythe said you sent him to say so.' 
 
 Mrs. Dale glanced at Lois, sitting in one of the deep window- 
 seats, reading, with the lamplight shining on her pretty face. 
 
 ' I asked him to come,' continued the rector, ' but he said he 
 must not leave his mother, she was not feeling well.' 
 
 'Quite right, very proper,' murmured the rest of the party; 
 but Mrs. Dale added, ' as there is no conversation, I'm afraid it 
 would have been very stupid ; I guess he knew that. And I cer- 
 tainly should not have allowed Henry to give up his seat to him.' 
 As she said this, she looked at Mr. Denner, who felt, under that 
 clear, relentless eye, his would have been the seat vacated, if Dick 
 Forsythe had come. Mr. Denner sighed ; he had no one to pro- 
 tect him, as Dale had. 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Miss Deborah, who was sorting her catJs, and 
 putting all the trumps at the right side, ' what decided Mr. 
 Forsythe to spend the snmmer here ? I understand that his 
 mother took the house in Ashurst just because he was going to 
 be abroad.' 
 
 Mrs. Dale nodded her head until her glasses glistened, and 
 looked at Lois, but the girl's yes were fastened upon her book. 
 
 ' I think,' remarked Mr. Daie, hesitating, and then glancing at
 
 jo JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 his wife, 'he is rather a changeable young man. He has one 
 view in the morning, and another in the afternoon.' 
 
 ' Don't be so foolish, Henry,' said his wife sharply. ' I hope 
 there's nothing wrong in the young man finding his own country 
 more attractive than Europe ? To change his mind in that way 
 is very sensible.' But this was in a hushed voice, for Mr. Den- 
 ner had led, and the room was silent again. 
 
 At the next deal, Miss Deborah looked sympathetically at Mr. 
 Dale. 'I think he is changeable,' she said; 'his own mother 
 told me that she was constantly afraid he'd marry some unsuitable 
 young woman, and the only safety was that he would see a new 
 one before it became too serious. She said it really told upon her 
 health. Dear me, I should think it might.' 
 
 Mrs. Dale tossed her head, and her knitting-needles clicked 
 viciously ; then she told Lois that this was the rubber, and she 
 had better see to the tray. The young girl must have heard every 
 word they said, though she had not lifted her bright eyes from 
 her book, but she did not seem disturbed by the charge of fickle- 
 ness on the part of Mr. Forsythe. He had not confided to her 
 his reasons for not going abroad ; all she knew was that the sum- 
 mer was the merriest one she had ever spent. ' I feel so young,' 
 little Lois said; and indeed she had caught a certain careless 
 gaiety from her almost daily companion, which did not belong to 
 Ashurst. But she gave no thought to his reason for staying, 
 though her father and Mrs. Dale did, and with great satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 ' What do you hear from Helen, brother ? ' Mrs. Dale asked, as 
 Lois rose to do her bidding. Mrs. Dale was determined to leave 
 the subject of Dick Forsythe, ' for Henry has so little sense,' she 
 thought, 'there is no knowing what he'll say next, or Deborah 
 Woodhouse either. But then, one couldn't expect anything else 
 of her.' 
 
 ' Ah ! she's all right,' said Dr. Howe, frowning at Miss Ruth's 
 hand, and then glancing at Mr. Dale's, and thrusting out his 
 lower lip, while his bushy eyebrows gathered in a frown. 
 
 ' What is Ward ? ' asked Mr. Dale, sorting his cards. ' Old or 
 new school ? ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know the difference,' said Dr. Howe; 'he's 
 a blue Presbyterian, though, through and through. He didn't 
 have much to say for himself, but what he did say made me believe 
 he was consistent; he doesn't stop short where his creed ceases 
 to be agreeable, and you know that is unusual.' 
 
 ' Well,' remarked the older man, ' he might be consistent and 
 belong to either school. I am told the difference consists merely 
 in the fact that the old school have cold roast beef on the Sab- 
 bath, and the new school have hot roast beef on Sunday. But 
 doubtless both unite on hell for other sects.' 
 
 The rector's quick laugh was silenced by the game, but at the
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 31 
 
 Dext pause he hastened to tell them what, John Ward had said of 
 slavery. ' Fancy such a speech ! ' he cried, his face growing red 
 at the remembrance. ' Upon the circumstances, I couldn't tell 
 him what I thought of him ; but I had my opinion. I wonder,' 
 he went on, rattling a bunch of keyain his pocket, ' what would 
 be the attitude of a mind like his in politics ? Conservative to the 
 most ridiculous degree, I imagine. Of course, to a certain extent, 
 it is proper to be conservative. I am conservative myself; I don't 
 like to see the younger generation rushing into things because 
 they are new, like Gifford calling himself a Democrat. I beg 
 your pardon, Miss Deborah, for finding fault with the boy.' 
 
 'Ah, doctor, ladies don't understand politics,' answered Miss 
 Deborah, politely. 
 
 ' But really,' said the rector, 'for a boy whose father died fnr 
 the Union, it's absurd, you know, perfectly absurd. But Ward ! 
 one can't imagine that he would ever change in anything, and 
 that sort of conservatism can be carried too far.' 
 
 ' Well, now,' said Mr. Denner, ' I should say, I should be in- 
 clined to think it would be just the opposite, quite quite the 
 contrary. From what you say, doctor, it seems to me more 
 likely that he might be an anarchist, as it were. Yes, not at all 
 a conservative.' 
 
 ' How so ? ' asked the rector. ' A man who would say such 
 a thing as that the Bible, his interpretation of it, was to decide 
 all questions of duty (a pretty dangerous thing that, for a man 
 must have inclinations of his own, which would be sure to color 
 his interpretation ! What ?), and who would bring all his actions 
 down to its literal teachings without regard to more modern needs ? 
 No, Denner, you are wrong- there.' 
 
 ' Not altogether,' Mr. Dale demurred in his gentle voice, ' Ward 
 would believe in a party only so long as it agreed with his con- 
 science, I should suppose, and his conscience might make him 
 anything. And certainly the Bible test would not leave him 
 content with democracy, doctor. Communism is literal Christi- 
 anity. I can fancy he would leave any party if he thought its 
 teachings were not supported by the Bible. But T scarce know 
 him ; my opinion is very superficial.' 
 
 ' Why do you express it then ? ' said Mrs. Dale. ' Don't you 
 see Deborah has led ? You are keeping the whole table waiting ! ' 
 
 They began to play. Mr. Denner, who was facing the open 
 door, could see the square hall, and the white stair-rail across the 
 first landing, where, with the moon and stars about its face, the 
 clock stood ; it was just five minutes to nine. This made the law- 
 yer nervous ; he played a low trump, in spite of the rector's mut- 
 ter of, ' Look out, Denner ! ' and thus lost the trick, which meant 
 the rubber, so he threw down the cards in despair. He had 
 scarcely finished explaining that he meant to play the king, but 
 threw the knave by mistake, when Lois entered, followed by 
 
 C
 
 3 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Sally with a big tray, which always carried exactly the same 
 things ; a little fat decanter, with a silver collar jingling about 
 its neck, marked Sherry, '39 ; a plate of ratafia cakes and another 
 of plum-cake for the rector's special delectation ; and a silver 
 wire basket full of home-made candy for Mr. Dale, who had two 
 weaknesses, candy and novels. Of late, Mrs. Dale had ceased 
 to inveigh against these tastes, feeling that it was hopeless to look 
 for reformation in a man nearly seventy years old. ' It is bad 
 manners,' she said, ' to do foolish things if they make you con- 
 spicuous. But then ! it is easier to change a man's creed than 
 his manners.' 
 
 The candles stood in a gleaming row on the mantel-piece, 
 where Lois had placed them to make room for the tray on the 
 whist-table ; for it was useless to think of putting anything on 
 the rector's writing-table, with its litter of church papers, and 
 sporting journals, and numbers of Bell' s Life, besides unans- 
 wered letters. The ladies, still sitting in the high-backed 
 chairs, spread white dollies over their laps, and then took their 
 small glasses of wine and delicate little cakes, but the gentlemen 
 ate and drank standing, and they all discussed the last game very 
 earnestly. Only Lois, waiting by the tray, ready to hand the 
 cake, was silent. It was the peculiarity of Ashurst, that even 
 after childhood had passed, young people were still expected to 
 be seen, and not heard ; so her silence would only have been 
 thought decorous, had anyone noticed it. By-and-by, when 
 she saw she was not needed, she slipped out of the front porch, 
 and sat down on the steps. Max followed her, and thrust his cold 
 nose under her hand. 
 
 She propped her chin upon her little fist, and began to think of 
 what had been said of Ashurst' s visitors. With a thrill of subtile 
 satisfaction, she remembered how pleased Mrs. Forsythe always 
 was to see her. ' She won't have any anxiety this summer which 
 will injure her health ! ' And then she tried to disguise her 
 thought by saying to herself that there were no girls in Ashurst 
 who were not ' suitable.' 
 
 ' Good-evening,' someone said gaily. It was Mr. Forsythe who 
 had come so quietly along the path, dark with its arching labur- 
 nums and syringas, she had not-heard him. 
 
 ' Oh,' she said, with a little start of surprise, ' I did not know 
 
 we were to see you to-night. Is your mother ' 
 
 ' I'm like the man in the Bible,' he interrupted, laughing. ' He 
 said he wouldn't, then he did!' He had followed her to the 
 library, and stood, smiling, with a hand on each side of the door- 
 way. ' I started for a walk, doctor, and somehow I found my- 
 self here. No cake, thank you yes, I'll have some sherry. Oh, 
 the whist is over ? Who is to be congratulated, Mrs. Dale ? For 
 my part I never could understand the fascination of the game.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER- 33 
 
 Euchre is heavy enough for me. May I have some of Mr. Dale's 
 candy, Miss Lois ? ' 
 
 Except Mrs. Dale, the little party of older people, seemed stun- 
 ned by the quick way in which he talked. His airy manner and 
 flimsy wit impressed them with a sense of his knowledge of life. 
 He represented the world to them, the world with a capital W, 
 and they were all more or less conscious of a certain awe in his 
 presence. His utter disregard of the little observances and forms 
 which were expected from Ashurst young people, gave them a 
 series of shocks that were rather pleasant than otherwise. 
 
 Mr. Dale looked confused, and handed him the candy with such 
 nervous haste, some of it fell to the floor, which gave the young 
 man a chance for his frequent light laugh. Miss Deborah began 
 in an agitated way to pick up the crumbs of her cake from her 
 lap, and ask her sister if she did not think Sarah had come for 
 them. Mr. Denner stopped talking about a new sort of fly for 
 trout, and said he thought yes, he really thought, he had better 
 be going, but he waited to listen with open-mouthed admiration 
 to the ease with which the young fellow talked. 
 
 Mr. Forsythe's conversation was directed to Mrs. Dale, but it 
 was for Lois. Nor did he seem aware of the silence which fell on 
 the rest of the company. Mrs. Dale enjoyed it. She answered 
 by nods, and small chuckles of approval, and frequent glances 
 about at the others, as much as to say, ' Do you hear that ? Isn't 
 that bright ? ' and a certain air of proprietorship, which meant 
 that she thoroughly approved of Mr. Forsythe, and regarded him 
 as her own discovery. 
 
 'This is the time we miss Gifford,' said Miss Deborah, who had 
 gone out into the hall to put on her overshoes. ' He was such a 
 useful child.' Lois came to help her, for Mr. Denner was far too 
 timid to offer assistance, and the rector too stout, and Mr. Dale 
 too absent-minded. As for Mr. Forsythe, he did not notice how 
 Miss Deborah was occupied, until Lois had rejoined ; and then 
 his offer was not accepted, for Miss Deborah felt shy about put- 
 ting out her foot in its black kid slipper, tied about the ankle with 
 a black ribbon, in the presence of this young man, who was, she. 
 was sure, very genteel. 
 
 Mr. Forsythe's call was necessarily a short one, for charming as 
 he was, Ashurst custom would not have permitted him to stay 
 when the party had broken up. However, he meant. to walk 
 along with the Dales, and hear her aunt talk about Lois. 
 
 The Masses Woodhouse's maid was waiting for them, her lan- 
 tern swinging in her hand. Mr. Denner had secretly hoped for a 
 chance of ' seeing them home,' but dared not offer his unneces- 
 sary services in Sarah's presence. 
 
 Dr. Howe and his daughter went as far as the gate with theii 
 guests, and then stood watching them down the lane, until a turn
 
 34 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 in the road hid the glimmer of the lantern and the dark figures 
 beside it. 
 
 " Bless my soul ! ' said the rector, as they turned to go back to 
 the house. ' This gaiety has made me almost forget my sermon. 
 I must not put it off so next week.' 
 
 This remark of Dr. Howe's was almost as regular as the whist 
 party itself. 
 
 Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth trotted behind Sarah, whose de- 
 termined stride kept them a little ahead of the others. Dick 
 Forsythe had joined Mrs. Dale at once, so Mr. Dale and Mr. Den- 
 ner walked together. They were only far enough behind to have 
 the zest one feels in talking about his neighbours when there is 
 danger of being overheard. 
 
 ' He is a very fine conversationalist,' said Mr. Denner, nodding 
 his head in Dick's direction ; ' he talks very well.' 
 
 ' He talks a great deal,' observed Mr. Dale. 
 
 ' He seems to feel,' Mr. Denner continued, ' no ah, if I can so 
 express it timidity.' 
 
 ' None,' responded Mr. Dale. 
 
 ' And I judge he has seen a great deal of the world,' said Mr. 
 Denner ; ' yet he appears to be satisfied with Ashurst, and I have 
 sometimes thought, Henry, that Ashurst is not, as it were, gay.' 
 As he said this, a certain jauntiness came into his step, as though 
 he did not include himself among those who were not ' gay.' 
 'Yet he seems to be content. I've known him come down to the 
 church when Lois was singing, and sit a whole hour, apparently 
 meditating. He is no doubt a very thoughtful young man.' 
 
 ' Bah ! ' answered Mr. Dale, ' he comes to hear Lois sing.' 
 
 Mr. Denner gave a little start. ' Oh,' he said ; ' ah I had not 
 thought of that.' But when he left Mr. Dale, and slipped into 
 the shadows of the Lombardy poplars on either side of his white 
 gate-posts, Mr. Denner thought much of it more with a sort of 
 ^envy of Mr. Forsythe's future than of Lois. 'He will marry 
 "some time (perhaps little Lois), and x hen he will have a comfort- 
 able home.' 
 
 Mr. Denner sat down on the steps outside his big white front 
 door, which had a brass knocker and knob that Mary had polished 
 until the paint had worn away around them. Mr. Denner' s house 
 was of rough brick, laid with great waste of mortar, so that it 
 looked as though covered with many small white seams. Some 
 ivy grew about the western windows of the" library, but on the 
 north and east sides it had stretched across the closed white shut- 
 ters, for these rooms had scarcely been entered since ^ittle Willie 
 Denner' s mother died, five years ago. She had kept house for her 
 Drother-in-law, and had brought some brightness into his life ; 
 but since her death, his one servant had had matters in her own 
 hands, and the house grew more lonely and cheerless each year. 
 Mr. Denner' s office was in his garden, and was of brick, like his
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 35 
 
 house, but nearer the road, and without the softening touch of 
 ivy ; it was damp and mildewed, and one felt instinctively that 
 the ancient law-books must have a film of mould on their bat- 
 tered covers, 
 
 The lawyer's little face had a pinched, wistful look ; the curls 
 of his brown wig were hidden by a tall beaver hat, with the old 
 bell crown and straight brim ; it was rarely smooth, except on 
 Sundays, when Mary brushed it before he went to church. He 
 took it off now, and passed his hand over his high mild forehead, 
 and sighed ; then he looked through one of the narrow windows 
 on either side of the front door, where the leaded glass was cut 
 into crescents and circles, and fastened with small brass rosettes ; 
 he could see the lamp Mary had left for him, burning dimly Oi. 
 the hall table, under a dark portrait of some Denner, long since 
 dead. But he still sat upon what he called his ' door-stones ; ' 
 the August starlight, and the Lombardy poplars stirring in the 
 soft wind, and the cricket chirping in the grass, offered more 
 companionship, he thought, than he would find in his dark, 
 silent library. 
 
 The little gentleman's mind wandered off to the different 
 homes he knew ; they were so pleasant and cheerful. There was 
 always something bright about the rectory, and how small and 
 cosy Henry Dale's study was ! And how pretty the Woodhouse 
 girl's parlour looked ! Mr. Denner was as slow to recognise the 
 fact that Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were no longer young as 
 they were themselves. Just now he thought only of the home- 
 life in their Id house, and the comfort and the peace. What 
 quiet, pleasant voices the sisters had, and how well Miss Deborah 
 managed, and how delightfully Miss Ruth painted ! How dif- 
 ferent his own life would have been in Gertrude Drayton Ah, 
 
 well ! The little gentleman sighed again, and then, drawing his 
 big key from his pocket, let himself into the silent hall and crept 
 quietly upstairs. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IT did not take Gifford Woodhouse very long to get settled in 
 Lockhaven. His office' and bedroom constituted his household, 
 and Miss Deborah never knew that her bags of lavender were not 
 even taken out of the trunk, and that the hard-featured Irish- 
 woman who ' came in by the day,' never saw the paper or direc- 
 tions, written, that she might be able to read it easily, in Miss 
 Deborah's small neat hand. 
 
 ^ut Miss Deborah was right in thinking Helen would look 
 alter his comfort, and Gifford soon felt that his real ' home '
 
 36 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 in Lockhaven was at the parsonage, though he had not time 
 to drop in half so often as the master and mistress urged him 
 to do. 
 
 He did not tell Helen of that talk with Lois, which had brought 
 a soberer look to his face than she had ever seen there. But she 
 had noticed it, and wondered at it, and she felt his reserve, too, 
 in speaking of her cousin ; she even asked herself if he could 
 have cared for Lois ? But the thought was too absurd. ' Pro- 
 bably they have quarrelled again,' she said regretfully ; she 
 never had been able to understand her cousin's impatience with 
 him. 
 
 Perhaps Gifford thought that she had an intuitive knowledge 
 of the ache there was in his heart, when she talked of Lois, for 
 he was comforted in a vague way by the sympathetic look which 
 was always on Helen's face when she spoke to anyone who 
 seemed troubled. So he was glad to come to the parsonage as 
 often as he could, and hear the Ashurst news, and have a cup of 
 tea with the preacher and his wife. 
 
 John and Helen often walked home with him, though his rooms 
 were quite at the other end of the town, near the river and the 
 mills ; and one night, as they stood on the shaking bridge, and 
 looked down at the brown water rushing and plunging against 
 the rotten wooden piers, Helen began to ask him about Mr. 
 Forsythe. 
 
 ' Tell me about him,' she said. 'You have seen him since he 
 left college. I only just remember him in Ashurst, though I 
 recall Mrs. Forsythe perfectly : a tall, sick-looking lady, with an 
 amiable melancholy face, and three puffs of hair on <:ach side 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Except that the puffs are white now, she is just the same,' 
 Gifford answered. ' As for her son, I don't know anything about 
 him. I believe we were not very good friends when we were boys, 
 but now well, he has the manners of a gentleman.' 
 
 'Doesn't that go without saying?' said Helen, laughing. 
 'From the letters I've had, I fancy he is a good deal at the 
 rectory.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Gifford admitted. ' But he is one of those people who 
 make you feel that though they may have good manners, their 
 grandfathers did not, don't you know ?' 
 
 ' But what difference does that make,' John asked, ' if he is a 
 good man ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, of course, no difference,' Gifford replied with an impatient 
 laugh. 
 
 'But what is the attraction in Ashurst, Gift?' Helen said. 
 ' How can he stay there all the summer ? I should not think he 
 could leave his business.' 
 
 ' Oh, he is rich.' 
 
 ' Why, you don't like him ! ' said Helen, surprised at his tone.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 37 
 
 'I don't know anything about the fellow,' the young man 
 answered. ' I have not seen enough of him to have an opinion 
 one way or the other. Judging from Aunt Ruth's letters, though, 
 I should say Lois liked him, so I don't think he will be anxious 
 for my approval, or anybody else's.' 
 
 Helen looked at him with sudden questioning in her eyes, but 
 they had reached his house, and John began to speak to him of 
 his plans and of Lockhaven. 
 
 ' I'm afraid you will have only too much to do,' he said. ' There 
 is a great deal of quarrelling among the mill-owners, and constant 
 disagreements between the hands.' 
 
 ' Well,' Gifford answered, smiling, and straightening his broad 
 shoulders, ' if there is work to do I am glad I am here to do it. 
 But I'm not hopeless for the life it indicates, when you say there's 
 much to be done. The struggle for personal right and advan- 
 tages is really, you know, the desire for the best, and a factor in 
 civilization. A generation or two hence, the children of these 
 pushing, aggressive fathers will be fine men.' 
 
 John shook his head sadly. ' Ah, but the present evil ? ' 
 
 But Gifford answered cheerfully. ' Oh, well the present evil is 
 one stage of development ; to live up to the best one knows is 
 morality, and the preservation of self is the best some of these 
 people know ; we can only wait hopefully for the future.' 
 
 ' Morality is not enough,' John said gently. ' Morality never 
 saved a soul, Mr. Woodhouse.' 
 
 But Helen laughed gaily. 'John dear, Gifford doesn't under- 
 stand your awful Presbyterian doctrines, and there is no use 
 trying to convert him.' 
 
 Gifford smiled, and owned good-naturedly that he was a 
 heathen. But I think,' he said, ' the thing which keeps the 
 town back most is liquor.' 
 
 'It is, indeed,' John answered eagerly. ' If it could be 
 banished ! ' 
 
 ' High license is the only practical remedy,' said Gifford, his 
 face full of interest ; but John's fell. 
 
 ' No, no, not that ; no compromise with sin will help us. I 
 would have it impossible to find a drop of liquor in Lock- 
 haven.' 
 
 ' What would you do in case of sickness ? ' Gifford asked 
 curiously. 
 
 ' I wouldn't have it used.' 
 
 ' Oh, John dear,' Helen protested, ' don't you think that is 
 rather extreme ? You know it is life or death sometimes ; a 
 stimulant has to be used, or a person would die. Suppose I had 
 to have it ? ' 
 
 His face flushed painfully. ' Death is better than sin,' he 
 said slowly and gently ; ' and you, if you I don't know, 
 Helen ; no one knows his weakness mtil temptation comes.'
 
 *ft JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 His tone was so full of trouble, Gifford, feeling- the sudden 
 tenderness of his own strength, said good-naturedly : ' What do 
 you think of us poor fellows who confess to a glass of claret 
 *t dinner ? ' 
 
 'And what must he have thought of the dinner-table at the 
 rectory ? ' Helen added. 
 
 ' I don't think I noticed it,' said John, simply. ' You were 
 there.' 
 
 'There, Helen, that's enough to make you sign the pledge!' 
 said Gifford. 
 
 He watched them walking- down the street, under the arching 
 ailantus, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of the fallen blos- 
 soms; and there was a thoughtful look on his face when he 
 went into the office, and, lighting his lamp, sat down to look over 
 some papers. ' How is that going to come out ? ' he said to 
 himself. ' Neither of those people will amend an opinion, and 
 Ward is not the man to be satisfied if his wife holds a belief he 
 thinks wrong.' But researches into the case of McHenry v. 
 Coggswell put things so impracticable as religious beliefs out of 
 his mind. 
 
 As for John and Helen, they walked towards the parsonage, 
 and Gifford, and his future, and his views of high license were 
 forgotten, as well as the sudden pain with which John had heard 
 kis wife's careless words about his ' awful doctrines.' 
 
 ' It is very pleasant to see him so often,' John said, 'but how 
 good it is to have you all to myself ! ' 
 
 Helen gave him a swift, glad look ; then their talk drifted into 
 those sweet remembrances which happy husbands and wives know 
 by heart ; what he thought when he saw her, how she wondered 
 if he would speak to her. ' And oh, Helen,' he said, ' I recollect 
 the dress you wore how soft and silky it was, but it never once 
 rustled or gleamed ; it rested my eyes just to look at it.' 
 
 A little figure was coming towards them down the deserted 
 street, with a jug clasped in two small grimy hands. 
 
 ' Preacher 1' cried *a childish voice, eagerly, 'good-evening, 
 preacher.' 
 
 John stopped and bent down to see who it was, for a tangle of 
 ow hair almost hid the little face. 
 
 ' Why, it is Molly,' he said in his pleasant voice. ' Where 
 have you teen, my child ? Oh yes, I see for dad's beer.' 
 
 Molly wa~ Smiling at hiin, proud to be noticed. 'Yes, 
 preacher,' she added, wagging her head. 'Good-night, preacher.' 
 But they had gone only a few steps when there was a wail. 
 Turning her head to watch him out of sight, Molly had tripped, 
 and now all that was left of the beer was a yellow scum of froth on 
 the dry ground. The jug was unbroken, but the child could find 
 a* comfort in that.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 39 
 
 ' I've spilt dad's beer,' she said, sobbing, and sinking down in 
 a forlorn heap on the ground. 
 
 John knelt beside her, and tried to comfort her. 'Never mind 
 we'll go and tell dad it was an accident.' 
 
 But Molly only shook 4jer head. ' No," she said, catching her 
 breath as she tried to speak; 'it won't do no good. He'll beat 
 me. He's getting over a drunk, so he wanted his beer, and he'll 
 lick me.' 
 
 John looked down sadly at the child for a moment. ' I will 
 take you home, Helen, and then I will go back with Molly.' 
 
 ' Oh, let me go with you ? ' Helen answered quickly. 
 
 ' No,' John replied; 'no, dear. You heard what Molly said ? 
 I cannot bear that your eyes should see what must be seen 
 in Tom Davis' house to-night. We will go to the parsonage 
 now, and then Molly and I will tell dad about the beer.' He 
 lifted the child gently in his arms, and stopped again for the 
 pitcher. 'Come, Helen,' he said, and they went towards the 
 parsonage. Helen entered reluctantly, but without a protest, 
 and then stood watching them down the street. The little 
 yellow head had fallen on John's shoulder, and Molly was almost 
 asleep. 
 
 Tom Davis' house was one of a row near the river. They had 
 been built on piles, so as to be out of the way of the spring ' rise,' 
 but the jar and shock of the great cakes of ice floating under 
 them when the river opened up had given them an unsteady look, 
 and they leaned and stumbled so that the stained plastering had 
 broken on the walls, and there were large cracks by the window 
 frames. The broken steps of Molly's home led up to a partly 
 open door. One panel had been crushed in in a fight, and the 
 knob was gone, and the door-posts were dirty and greasy. The 
 narrow windows were without shutters, and only a dingy green 
 paper shade hid the room within. 
 
 Molly opened her sleepy eyes long enough to say, ' Don't let 
 dad lick me ! ' 
 
 ' No, little Molly,' John said, as he went into the small entry, 
 and knocked at the inner door. ' Don't be afraid.' 
 
 ' Come in,' a woman's voice answered. 
 
 Mrs. Davis was sitting by the fireless stove, on which she had 
 placed her small lamp, and she was trying by its feeble light to 
 do some mending. Her face had that indifference to its own 
 hopelessness which forbids all hope for it. She looked up as they 
 entered. 
 
 ' Oh, it's the preacher,' she said, with a flickering smile about 
 her fretful lips ; and she rose, brushing some lifeless strands of 
 hair behind her ears, and pulling down her sleeves, which were 
 rolled above her thin elbows. 
 
 1 Molly has had an accident, Mrs. Davis,' John explained, put- 
 ting the child gently down, and steadying her on her uncertain
 
 40 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 little feet, until her eyes were fairly opened. ' So I came home 
 with her to say how it happened.' 
 
 ' She spilt the beer, I reckon,' said Mrs. Davis, glancing at the 
 empty jug John had put upon the table. ' Well, it ain't no great 
 loss. He's asleep, and won't know anything about it. He will 
 have forgot he sent her by morning.' She jerked her head to- 
 wards one side of the room, where her husband was lying upon 
 the floor. ' Go get the preacher a chair, Molly. Not that one ; 
 it's got a leg broke. Oh, you needn't speak low,' she added, as 
 John thanked the child softly; ' he won't hear nothing before to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 The lumberman lay in the sodden sleep with which he ended a 
 spree. He had rolled up his coat for a pillow, and had thrown 
 one arm across his purple, bloated face. Only the weak, help- 
 less, open mouth could be seen. His muscular hands were 
 relaxed, and the whole prostrate figure was pathetic in its un- 
 consciousness of will and grotesque unhumanness. Fate had been 
 too strong for Tom Davis. His birth and all the circumstances 
 of his useful life had brought him with resistless certainty to this 
 level, and his progress in the future could only be an ever-hastening 
 plunge downward. 
 
 But the preacher did not consider fate when he turned and looked 
 at the drunken man. A stern look crept over the face which had 
 smiled at Moily but a moment before. 
 
 ' This is the third time,' he said, ' that this has happened since 
 Tom came and told me he would try to keep sober. I had hoped 
 the spirit of God had touched him.' 
 
 ' I know,' the woman answered, turning the coat she was mend- 
 ing, and moving the lamp a little to get a better light ; ' and it's 
 awful hard on me, so it is ; that's where all our money goes. I 
 can't get shoes for the children's feet, let alone a decent rag to 
 put on my back to wear of a Sabbath, and come to church. It's 
 hard on me, now, I tell you, Mr. Ward.' 
 
 'It's harder on him,' John replied. 'Think of his immortal 
 soul. Oh, Mrs. Davis, do you point out to him the future he is 
 preparing for himself ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said. ' I'm telling him he'll go to hell all the time ; 
 but it don't do no good. Tom's afraid of hell, though ; it's the 
 only thing as ever did keep him straight. After one o' them 
 sermons of yours, I've known him to swear off as long as two 
 months. I ain't been to church this long time, till last Sabbath ; 
 and I was hoping I'd hear one of that kind, all about hell, Mr. 
 Ward, so I could tell Tom, but you didn't preach that way. Not 
 but what it was good, though,' she added, with an evident wish 
 to be polite. 
 
 John's face suddenly flushed. ' I I know I did not, but the 
 love of God must constrain us. Mrs. Davis, as well as the fear of 
 hell.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 41 
 
 Mrs. Davis sighed. Tom's spiritual condition, which had roused 
 momentary interest.lwas forgotten in the thought of her own misery. 
 ' Well, it's awful hard on me,' she repeated, with a little tremor 
 in her weak chin. 
 
 John looked at her with infinite pity in his eyes. ' Yes,' he said, 
 1 hard on you, because of the eternal suffering which may come to 
 your husband. Nothing can be more frightful than to think of 
 such a thing for one we love. Let us try to save him ; pray always, 
 pray without ceasing for his immortal soul, that he may not slight 
 the day of salvation, and repent when it is too late to find the 
 mercy of God. Oh, the horror of knowing that the day of grace 
 has gone for ever ! ' For My Spirit shall not always strive with 
 men.' ' 
 
 He went over to the drunken man, and kneeling down beside 
 him, took one of the helpless hands in his. Mrs. Davis put down 
 her sewing, and watched him. 
 
 Perhaps the preacher prayed, as he knelt there, though she could 
 not hear him ; but when he rose and said good-night, she could 
 see his sad eyes full of trouble which she could not understand, a 
 pity beyond her comprehension. 
 
 Molly came sidling up to her protector, as he stood a moment 
 in the doorway, and, taking his hand in hers, stroked it softly. 
 
 ' I love you, preacher,' she said, ' 'cause you're good.' 
 
 John's face brightened with a sudden smile, the love of little 
 children was a great joy to him, and the touch of these small 
 hands gave him an indefinable comfort of hope. God, who had 
 made the sweetness of childhood, would be merciful to his own 
 children. He would give them -time, He would not withdraw the 
 day of grace ; surely Tom Davis' soul would yet be saved. There 
 was a subtle thought below this of hope that for Helen, too, the 
 day of grace might be prolonged, but he did not realize this him- 
 self ; he did not know that he ieared for one moment that she 
 might not soon accept the truth. He was confident, he thought, 
 of her, and yet more confident of the constraining power of the 
 truth itself. 
 
 He looked down at Molly, and put his hand gently on her yellow 
 head. ' Be a good girl, my little Molly,' then, with a quiet bles- 
 sing upon the dreary home, he turned away. 
 
 But what Mrs. Davis had said of going to church to hear a ser- 
 mon on hell, and her evident disappointment did not leave his 
 mind. He walked slowly towards the parsonage, his head bent 
 and his hands clasped behind him, and a questioning anxiety in 
 his face. ' I will use every chance to speak of the certain punish- 
 ment of the wicked when I visit my people, he said, ' but not in 
 the pulpit. Not where Helen could hear it yet. In her frame 
 of mind, treating the wh >le question somewhat lightly, not realiz- 
 ing its awful importance, it would be productive of no good. I 
 will try, little by little, to show her what to believe, and torn her
 
 42 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 thoughts to truth. For the present that is enough, that is wisest.' 
 And then his heart went back to her and how happy they were. 
 He stopped a moment, looking up at the stars, and saying, with a 
 breathless awe in his voice, ' My God, how good Thou art, how 
 happy I am I ' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE little stir which the arrival of the Forsythes made in Ashurst 
 was delightful. 
 
 ' Of course,' as Mrs. Dale said, ' Arabella Forsythe had not been 
 born there, and could not be expected to be just like Ashurst 
 people ; but it was something to have a new person to talk to, even 
 if you had to talk about me. licines most of the time.' 
 
 Lois Howe enjoyed it, for there were very few young people in 
 Ashurst that summer ; the 1 wo Drayton giris had gone away to 
 visit a married brother, an d there were no young men now 
 Gifford had gone. So it was pleasant to have a person of her 
 own age to talk to, and sometimes to walk with, though the 
 rector never felt quite sure what his sister would say to that. 
 However, Mrs. Dale had nothing to say ; she shut her eyes to 
 any impropriety, and even remarked severely to Miss Deborah 
 Woodhouse that those old-fashioned ideas of a girl's being 
 always under her mother's eye, were prim and old-maidish ; 
 ' and beside, Lois's mother is dead,' she added, with a sort of 
 triumph in her voice. 
 
 As for Lois, she almost forgot that she had thought Ashurst 
 lonely wh en Helen had gone, and Gifford ; for, of course, in so 
 small a pi ace, everyone counted. She had wondered, sometimes, 
 before the Forsythes came, with a self-consciousness which was 
 a new exj erience, if anyone thought she missed Gifford. But 
 her anxiety was groundless Ashurst imagination never rose to 
 any such height ; and certainly, if the letters the young man 
 wrote to her could have been seen, such a thought would not 
 have been suggested. They were pleasant and friendly ; very 
 short, and not very frequent ; mostly of Helen and what she did ; 
 there was almost nothing of himself, and the past, at least as far 
 as a certain night in June was concerned, was never mentioned. 
 At first this was a relief to Lois, but by-and-by came a feeling 
 too negative to be called pique, or even mortification at having 
 been forgotten ; it was rather an intangible soreness in her 
 memory of him. 
 
 'It is just as Miss Deborah says,' she said to herself: 'young 
 men always forget those things. And it is better that they do. 
 Gifford never thinks of what he said to me, and I'm sure I'm 
 glad he doesn't but still?' And then that absurd suggestion
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 43 
 
 of Miss Deborah about Helen wo uld creep into her mind ; she 
 might banish it, because it was billy and impossible, yet she 
 did not utterly forget it. However, she really thought very 
 little about it ; the presence of Mrs. Forsythe and her son gave 
 her plenty of occupation. There was the round of teas and 
 dinners which Ashurst felt it incumbent to give to a new arrival, 
 and Lois was to have tv/o new gowns in consequence of so much 
 gaiety. 
 
 She spent a good deal of time with Mrs. Forsythe, for the elder 
 lady needed her, she said. It was not altogether the companion- 
 ship which fascinated Lois : the sunny drawing-room of the 
 house the Forsythes had hired was filled with dainty things, and 
 light, graceful furniture, and many harmlessly silly novels ; there 
 was a general air about it of belonging to a life she had never 
 seen which made it a pleasure to come into it. The parlors in 
 Ashurst had such heavy, serious chairs and tables, she said to 
 herself, and the pictures were all so dark and ugly, and she was 
 so tired of the carpets. 
 
 So she was very glad when Mrs. Forsythe begged her to come 
 and read aloud, or fix her flowers, or even stroke her soft white 
 hair when she had a headache. ' Dick may be at home, my dear,' 
 Mrs. Forsythe would say in her deprecating voice, ' but you won't 
 mind him ? ' And soon Lois did not mind him at all. 
 
 At first she was very shy in the presence of this light-hearted 
 young fellow, whose indifference to Ashurst opinion was very 
 impressive ; but by-and-by that wore off, and Mrs. Forsythe's 
 drawing-room echoed with their young laughter. Lois began to 
 feel with Dick the freedom and friendliness which had once been 
 only for Gifford. 'Why couldn't Giff have been like this ! ' she 
 thought ; yet she did not say that she and Mr. Forsythe were 
 like 'brother and sister,' for she was always conscious of a 
 possibility in their friendship ; but it was enough that Mr. 
 Forsythe was very interesting, and that that summer, life was 
 very delightful. 
 
 After all, love is frequently a matter of propinquity. 
 
 Dick found himself going often to the rectory, and Lois fell into 
 the habit of making her plans with the reservation, ' In case Mr. 
 Forsythe calls;' and it generally happened that he did call. 
 ' Mother sends her love, and will Miss Lois come and read to her 
 a little while this afternoon, if she is not too busy ? ' or, ' Mother 
 returns this dish, and begs me to thank you for the j".lly, and to 
 tell Jean how good it was.' 
 
 It was easy for Dick to manufacture errands like these. Dr. 
 Howe began to think young Forsythe spent the greater part of his 
 time at the rectory. But this did not trouble him at all; in fact, 
 it was a satisfaction that this lively young man liked the rectory so 
 much. Dr. Howe did not go very far into the future in his thoughts ; 
 he was distinctly flattered in the present. Of course, if anything
 
 44 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 came of it (for the rector was not entirely unworldly), why, it would 
 be all for the best. So he was quite patient if Lois was not on hand 
 to hunt up a book for him or to fetch his slippers, and he fell into 
 the habit of spending much time in Mr. Denner's office, looking 
 over the Field and talking of their next hunting trip. He was not 
 even irritated when, one morning, wishing to read a letter to hib 
 daughter, he had gone all over the house looking for her, and then 
 had caught a glimpse of her through the trees, down in the sunny 
 garden, with Dick Forsythe. ' I'll just let that letter wait,' he 
 said, and went and stretched himself on the slippery, leather- 
 covered sofa in the shaded library, with a paper in his hand and 
 a satisfied smile on his lips. 
 
 The garden was ablaze with colour, and full of all sorts of de- 
 licious scents and sounds. The gay old-fashioned flowers poured 
 a flood of blossoms through all the borders ; hollyhocks stood like 
 rockets against the sky ; sweet-peas and scarlet runners scrambled 
 over the box edges and about the rose-bushes ; mallows and sweet- 
 williams, asters and zinias and phlox, crowded close together with 
 a riotous richness of tint ; scarlet and yellow nasturtiums streamed 
 over the ground like molten sunshine ; and, sparking and glint- 
 ing through the air, butterflies chased up and down like blossoms 
 that had escaped from their stems. 
 
 Lois had come out to pick some flowers for the numerous vases 
 and bowls which it was her delight to keep filled all summer long. 
 She was bareheaded, and the wind had rumpled the curls around 
 her forehead ; the front of her light blue dress she wore light 
 blue in a manner which might have been called daring had it 
 implied the slightest thought was caught up to hold her lapful of 
 flowers ; a sheaf of roses rested on her shoulder, and some feathery 
 vines trailed almost to the ground, while in her left hand, their 
 stems taller than her own head, were two stately sunflowers, which 
 were to brighten the hall. 
 
 Mr. Forsythe caught sight -of her as he closed the gate, and 
 hurried down the path to help her carry her fragrant load. He 
 had, as usual, a message to deliver. 'Mother sends her love, 
 Miss Lois, and says she isn't well enough to go and drive this 
 afternoon ; but she'll be glad to go to-morrow, if you'll take her?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, indeed ! ' Lois cried, in her impetuous voice. - But 
 I'm sorry she's ill to-day.' 
 
 Dick gave the slightest possible shrug of his square shoulders. 
 ' Oh, I guess she's all right,' he said. ' It amuses her. But won't 
 you give me some flowers to take home to her ? ' 
 
 Of course Lois was delighted to do it, but Dick insisted that she 
 should first put those she had already gathered in water, and then 
 get some fresh ones for his mother. ' You see I'm very particular 
 that she should have the best ; ' then they both laughed. Now, 
 mutual laughter at small jokes brings about a very friendly feeling. 
 
 They went up to the side-porch, where it was shady, and Lois
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 45 
 
 and Sally brought out all the vases and dishes which could be 
 made to hold flowers, and put them in a row on the top step. 
 Then Dick brought a big pitcher of fresh, cold water from the 
 spring, and Lois went for the garden scissors to clip off the long 
 stems ; and at last they were ready to go to work, the sweet con- 
 fusion of flowers on the steps between them, and Max sitting 
 gravely at Lois' elbow as chaperon. 
 
 The rector heard their voices and the frequent shouts of laughter, 
 and began to think he must bestir himself ; Mr. Forsythe should 
 see that Ashurst young women were under the constant oversight 
 of their parents ; but he yawned once or twice, and thought how 
 comfortable the cool leather of the lounge was, and had another 
 little doze before he went out to the porch with the open letter in 
 his hand. 
 
 Dick had his hat full of white and pink and wine-coloured holly- 
 hocks, which he had stripped from their stems, and was about to 
 put in a shallow dish, so he did not rise, but said, ' Hello ! ' in 
 answer to the rector's ' Good-morning,' and smiled brightly up at 
 him. It was the charm of this smile which made the older people 
 in Ashurst forget that he treated them with very little reverence. 
 
 ' Lois,' her father said, 'I have a letter from Helen ; do you want 
 to send any message when I answer it ? Mr. Forsythe will excuse 
 you if you read it.' 
 
 ' Why, of course,' Dick replied. ' I feel almost as though I 
 knew Mrs. Ward, Miss Lois has talked so much about her.' 
 
 4 How funny to hear her called ' Mrs. Ward' ! ' Lois said, taking 
 the letter from her father's hand. 
 
 ' I should think she'd hate Lockhaven,' Dick went on. ' I was 
 there once for a day or two. It's a poor little place ; lots of poverty 
 among the hands. And it is awfully unpleasant to see that sort 
 of thing. I've heard fellows say they enjoyed a good dinner more 
 if they saw some poor beggar going without. Now, I don't feel 
 that way. I don't like to see such things ; they distress me, and 
 I don't forget them.' 
 
 Lois, reading Helen s letter, which was full of grief for the 
 helpless trouble she saw in Lockhaven, thought that Mr. Forsythe 
 had a very tender heart. Helen was questioning the meaning of 
 the suffering about her ; already the problem as old as life itself 
 confronted her, and she asked, Why ? 
 
 Dr. Howe had noticed this tendency in some of her later letters, 
 and scarcely knew whether to be annoyed or amused by it. 
 ' Now, what in the world,' he said, as Lois handed back the letter 
 ' what in the world does the child mean by asking me if I do 
 not think stay, where is that sentence ? ' The rector fumbled for 
 his glasses, and, with his lower lip thrust out, and his gray eye- 
 brows gathered into a frown, glanced up and down the pages. 
 ' Ah, yes, here :' Do you not think,' she says, ' that the presence 
 in the world, of suffering which cannot produce character, irre-
 
 46 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 sponsible suffering 1 , so to speak, makes it hard to believe in the 
 personal care of God ? ' It is perfect nonsense for Helen to talk in 
 that way ! What does she knowabout 'character' and 'irresponsible 
 suffering' ' ? I shall tell her to mend her husband's stockings, and 
 not bother her little head with theological questions that a^e too 
 big for her.' 
 
 'Yes, sir,' Lois answered, carefully snipping off the thorns on 
 the stem of a rose before she plunged it down into the water in 
 the big punch-bowl ; ' but people can't help just wondering 
 sometimes.' 
 
 ' Now, Lois, don't you begin to talk that way,' the rector cried 
 impatiently ; ' one in a family is enough ! ' 
 
 ' Well,' said Dick Forsythe gaily, 'what's the good of bother- 
 ing about things you can't understand ? ' 
 
 ' Exactly,' the rector answered. ' Be good ! if we occupy our 
 minds with conduct, we won't have room for speculation, which 
 never made a soul better or happier, anyhow. Yes, it is all non- 
 sense, and I shall tell Helen so ; there is too much tendency among 
 young people to talk about thing > they do not understand, and it 
 results in a superficial, skin-deep sort of scepticism that I despise ! 
 Besides,' he added, laughing and knocking his glasses off, 'what 
 is the good of having a minister for a husband ? She ought to ask 
 him her theological questions.' 
 
 ' Well, now, you know, father,' Lois said, ' Helen is not the sort 
 of woman to be content just to step into the print her husband's 
 foot has made. She will choose what she thinks is solid ground 
 for herself. And she is not superficial.' 
 
 'Oh, no, of course not,' the rector began, relenting. 'I did not 
 mean to be hard upon the child. But she must not be foolish. I 
 do not want her to make herself unhappy by getting unsettled in 
 her belief, and that is what this sort of questioning results in. But 
 I did not come out to scold Helen ; it just occurred to me that it 
 might be a good thing to send her that twenty-five dollars I meant 
 to give to domestic missions, and let her use it for some of her 
 poor people. What ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, do ! ' Lois replied. 
 
 ' Let me send twenty-five dollars, too ! ' Dick cried, whipping 
 out a cheque-book 
 
 Dr. Howe protested, but Mr. Forsythe insisted that it was a great 
 pleasure. 'Don't you see/ he explained, smiling, ' if Mrs. Ward 
 will spend some money for me, it will make my conscience easy 
 for a month ; for, to tell you the truth, doctor, I do not think about 
 poor people any more than I can help ; it is too unpleasant. I 
 am afraid I am very selfish.' 
 
 This was said with such a good-natured look, Dr. Howe could 
 only smile indulgently. ' Ah, well, you are young, and I am sure 
 your twenty-five dollars for Helen's poor people will coveramulti-
 
 JOHN WARD, PRfeACHER. 47 
 
 of sins. I fancy you are not quite so bad as you would have 
 us believe.' 
 
 Lois watched him draw his cheque, and was divided between 
 admiration and an undefined dissatisfaction with herself for feel- 
 ing admiration for what really meant so little. 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' the rector said heartily. 
 
 ' Oh, you are welcome, I'm sure, answered the other. 
 
 Dr. Howe folded the cheque away in a battered leather pocket- 
 book, shiny on the sides and ragged about the corners, and over- 
 flowing with odds and ends of memoranda and newspaper cuttings; 
 a row of fish-hooks were fastened into the flap, and he stopped 
 to adjust these before he went into the house to answer Helen's 
 letter. 
 
 He snubbed her good-naturedly, telling her not to worry about 
 things too great for her, but beneath his consciousness there lurk- 
 ed a little discomfort, or even irritation. Duties which seemed 
 dead and buried, and forgotten, are avenged by the sting of 
 memory. In the rector's days at the theologipal school, he had 
 himself known those doubts which may lead to despair, or to a 
 wider and unflinching gaze into the mysteries of light. But 
 Archibald Howe reached neither one condition nor the other. He 
 questioned many things ; he even knew the heart-ache which the 
 very fear of losing faith gives. But the way was too hard, and 
 the toil of anguish of the soul too great ; he turned back into 
 the familiar paths of the religion he knew and loved ; and doubt 
 grew vague, not in assured belief, but in the plain duties of life. 
 After a little while, he almost forgot that he ever had doubted. 
 Only now and then, when some questioning soul came to him, 
 would he realise that he could not help it by his own experience, 
 only by a formula a text-book spirituality; then he would re- 
 member, and promise himself that the day should come when he 
 would face uncertainty and know what he believed. But it was 
 continually eluding him, and being put off; he could not bear 
 to run the risk of disturbing the faith of others ; life was too 
 full ; he had not the time for study and research and perhaps it 
 would all end in deeper darkness. Better be content with what 
 light he had. So duty was neglected, and his easy, tranquil life 
 flowed on. 
 
 Writing his careless rebuke to Helen brought this past unplea- 
 santly before his mind ; he was glad when he had sanded his 
 paper and thrust the folded letter into its envelope, and could 
 forget once more 
 
 Dick Forsythe had prolonged his call by being very careful 
 what flowers were picked for his mother, and he and Lois wan- 
 dered over the whole garden, searching for tl?e most perfect roses, 
 oefore he acknowledged that he was content. When they 
 parted at the iron gate, he was more in love than ever, and Lois 
 walked back to the rectory, thinking with a vague dissatisfac- 
 
 9
 
 48 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 don how much sh% vvculd miss the Forsythes when they left 
 Ashurst. 
 
 But Mr. Forsythe's was not the sort of love which demanded 
 solitude and silence, so that when he saw Mr. Dale coming from 
 Mr. Denner's little law office, he made haste to join him. Con- 
 versation of any sort, and with any person, was a necessity to 
 this young man, and Mr. Dale was better than no one. 
 
 ' I've just been to the rectory,' he said, as he reached the elder 
 man's side. 
 
 ' I suppose so,' Mr. Dale answered shortly. Perhaps he was 
 the only person in Ashurst who was not blinded by the glamour 
 of that World which Mr. Forsythe represented, and who realized 
 the nature of the young man himself. Dick's superficiality was 
 a constant irritation to Mr. Dale, who missed in him that defer- 
 ence for the opinions of elder people which has its roots in the 
 past, in the training of fathers and mothers in courtesy and gen- 
 tleness, and which blossom in perfection in the third or fourth 
 generation. 
 
 There was nothing in his voice to encourage Dick to talk about 
 Lois Howe, so he wisely turned the conversation, but wished he 
 had a more congenial companion. Mr. Dale walked with hands 
 behind him and shoulders bent forward ; his wide-brimmed felt 
 hat was pulled down over his long soft locks of white hair, and 
 hid the expression of his face. 
 
 So Dick rattled on in his light, happy voice, talking of every- 
 thing or nothing, as his hearer might happen to consider it, until 
 suddenly Mr. Dale's attention was caught. Dick began to speak 
 of John Ward. 'I thought I'd seen him,' he was saying; 
 ' the name was familiar, and then when Miss Lois described his 
 looks, and told me where he studied for the ministry, I felt sure 
 of it. If it is the same man, he must be a queer fellow.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' asked Mr. Dale. He did not know John Ward very 
 well, and had no particular feeling about him one way or the 
 other; but people interested Mr. Dale, and he had meant some 
 time to study this 'man with the same impersonal and kindly 
 curiosity with which he would have examined a new bug in his 
 collection. 
 
 ' Because, if he's the man I think he is and I guess there is no 
 doubt about it thin, dark, and abstracted-looking, named Ward, 
 and studying at the Western Theological Seminary that year I 
 saw him do a thing well, I never knew any other man who would 
 have done it ! ' 
 
 ' What was it, sir ? ' said Mr. Dale, turning his mild blue eyes 
 upon the young man, and regarding him with an unusual amount 
 of interest. 
 
 Dick laughed. ' Why, 1 he answered, ' I saw that man there 
 were a lot of us fellows standing on the steps of one of the hotels ; 
 it was the busiest street and the busiest time of the day, and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. * 
 
 there was a woman coming along, drunk as a lord. Jove ! you 
 ought to have seen her walk. She couldn't walk that was about 
 the truth of it ; and she had a miserable yelling brat in her arms. 
 It seemed as though she'd fall half a dozen times. Well, while 
 we were standing there, I saw that man coming down the street. 
 I didn't know him then somebody told me his name afterwards. 
 I give you my word, sir, when he saw that woman, he stood still 
 one minute, as though he was thunderstruck by the sight of her 
 not hesitating, you know, but just amazed to see a. woman 
 looking like that and then he went right up to her, and took 
 that dirty, screeching child out of her arms ; and then, I'm 
 blessed if he didn't give her his arm and walk down the street 
 with her! ' 
 
 Mr. .Dale felt the shock of it. ' Ah ! ' he said with a quick in- 
 drawn breath. 
 
 'Yes,' continued Dick, who enjoyed telling a good story, 'he 
 walked down that crowded street with the drunken, painted 
 creature on his arm. I suppose he thought she'd fall, and hurt 
 herself and the -child. Naturally everybody looked at him, but 
 I don't believe he even saw them. We stood there and watched 
 them out of sight and but of course you know how fellows 
 talk ! Though, so long as he was a minister' Dick grinned 
 significantly, and looked at Mr. Dale for an answer; but there was 
 none. 
 
 Suddealy the oid man stood still and gravely lifted his hat. 
 1 He's a good man,' he said, and then trudged on again, with his 
 head bent and his hands clasped behind him. 
 
 Mr. Forsythe looked at him, and whistled. 'Jove!' he ex- 
 claimed, ' it doesn't strike you as it did Dr. Howe. I told him, 
 and he said, ' Bless my soul, hadn't the man sense enough to call 
 a policeman ? ' 
 
 But Mr. Dale had nothing more to say. The picture of John 
 Ward, walking through the crowded street with the woman who 
 was a sinner upheld by his strong and tender arm, was not for- 
 gotten ; and when Dick had left him, and he had lighted his slender 
 silver pipe in the quiet of his basement study, he said again, ' He's 
 a good man.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IT was one of those deliciously cold evenings in early autumn. All 
 day long the sparkling sunshine scenting the air had held an 
 exhilaration like wine, but now night had folded a thin mist across 
 the hills, though the clear darkness of the upper sky was filled 
 with the keen white light of innumerable stars.
 
 y JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 A ire in the open grate in John Ward's study was pure luxury, 
 for the room did not really need the warmth. It was of that soft 
 coal which people in the Middle States burn in happy indifference 
 to dust-making qualities, because of its charm of sudden-puffing 
 flames, which burst from the bubbling blackness with a singing 
 noise, like the explosion of an oak-gall stepped on unawares in 
 the woods. 
 
 It had been a busy day for John, ending with the weekly prayer- 
 meeting ; and to sit now in front of the glowing fire, with Helen 
 beside him, was a well earned rest. 
 
 In the afternoon he had taken a dozen of the village-children 
 io find a swamp whose borders were fringed with gentians, which 
 teemed to have caught the colour of the wind-swept October skies. 
 He would not let Helen go. ' The walk would tire you,' he 
 said ; but he himself seemed to know no weariness, though most 
 ?f the time he carried one of the children, and was continually 
 V.fting them over rough places, and picking their flowers and ferns 
 tor them. 
 
 Helen had seen them start, and watched them as they tramped 
 ever the short, crisp grass of an upland pasture, and she coula 
 just distinguish the words of the hymn they sung, John's clear 
 weet tenor leading their quavering treble : 
 
 'His loving-kindness, loving-kindness, 
 His loving-kindness, oh, how free ! ' 
 
 After they had gathered gentians to their hearts' content, they 
 crowded about John and begged for a story, for that was always 
 the crowning bliss of an afternoon with the preacher. But, though 
 prefaced with the remark that they must remember it was only a 
 story and not at all true, their enjoyment of gnomes and fairies, 
 of wondrous palaces built of shining white clouds, with stars for 
 lamps, was never lessened. True, there was generally a moral, 
 but in his great desire to make it attractive John often concealed 
 it, and was never quite sure that his stories did the good he 
 intended. But they did good in another way ; the children loved 
 him, as most of them loved nothing else in their meagre, hungry 
 little lives. And he loved them ; they stirred the depth of 
 tenderness in him. What did the future hold for them ? Misery, 
 perhaps, and surely sin, for what hope was there of purity and 
 holiness in such homes as theirs ? And the horror of that further 
 future, the sure eternity which follows sin, cast a dreary shadow 
 over them, and lent a suppressed passion to the fervour with which 
 he tried to win their love, that he might lead them to righteous- 
 ness. 
 
 But it was his gentleness, and a childlike simplicity which the, 
 j**jnselves must early lose, which attracted and charmed tt>
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. ft 
 
 children, and made them happy and contented if they could but 
 be with the preacher. 
 
 They had left him reluctantly at the parsonage gate, clamour - 
 icg for another afternoon, which was gladly promised. Then John 
 had had a quiet half-hour for further thought upon his evening 
 talk to his people, which had been prepared the day before. 
 Helen had laughed at the amount of study given to every 
 address. ' I wish you could see how Uncle Archie manages his 
 sermons.' 
 
 ' He has not the sort of people I have,' John said, with kindly 
 excuse. ' You think of the importance of speaking to any one 
 in Christ's name ! We preach for eternity, Helen for eternity.' 
 
 She looked at him gravely. 'John,' she answered, 'you take 
 these things too much to heart, u is not wise dear.' 
 
 He hesitated and then said gently. ' These are the only things 
 to take to heart. We only live to prepare for that other life. Can 
 we be too earnest, dear, when eternity hangs upon the use we 
 make of time ? That thought is a continual spur to make me 
 eager for my duty to my people.' 
 
 ' Oh, I know it,' Helen responded, laying her head upon his 
 shoulder ; ' but don't work too hard.' 
 
 He put his arms about her, and the impulse which had been 
 strong a moment before to speak to her of her own soul was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 These prayer-meetings were trials to Helen Ward. She missed 
 the stately Liturgy of her own church. ' I don't like to hear 
 Elder Dean give the Almighty so much miscellaneous information,' 
 she said, half laughing, yet quite in earnest. But she always 
 went, for at least there was the pleasure of walking home with 
 John. Besides, practice had made it possible for her to hear 
 without heeding, and in that way she escaped a great deal of 
 annoyance. 
 
 This especial Wednesday evening, however, she had not been 
 able to close her ears to all that was said. She had grown rest- 
 less, and looked about the narrow whitewashed room where the 
 Secture was given, and longed for the reverence of the starlit 
 silence outside. 
 
 John had begun the meeting by a short prayer, simple and 
 direct as a child's request to his father, and after a hymn he said 
 a few words on the text he had chosen. Then the meeting was 
 open, and to some of the things said Helen listened with indignant 
 disapproval. As they walked home, rejoicing in the fresh cold 
 air and the sound of their quick footsteps on the frosty ground, 
 she made up her mind what she meant to do, but she did not speak 
 of it until they were by their own fireside. 
 
 The room was full of soft half-darkness ; shadows leaped out of 
 the corners, and chased the gleams of firelight, the tall clock tlc. 
 ing slowly in the corner, and on the hearts of those two 6*14
 
 S> JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 content with life and each other which is best experience." by 
 silence. 
 
 John sat at his wife's feet; his tired head was upon her knee, 
 and he could look up into her restful face, while he held cne of 
 her hands across his lips. It was a good face to see ; he. clear 
 brown eyes were large and full, with heavy lids which drcoped a 
 little at the outer corners, giving a look of questioning sincerity, 
 which does not often outlast childhood. Her bronze-brown hair 
 was knotted low on her neck, and rippled a little over a smooth 
 white forehead. 
 
 John had begun to stroke her hand softly, hold it up to shield 
 her eyes from the firelight, and twisting the plain band of her 
 wedding-ring about. 
 
 ' What a dear hand,' he said ; ' how strong and firm it is ! ' 
 
 ' It is large, at least,' she answered, smiling. He measured it 
 against his own gaunt, thin hand, which always had a nervous 
 thrill in the pale fingers. ' You see, they are about the same size, 
 but mine is certainly much whiter. Just look at that ink-stain ; 
 that means you write too much. I don't like you to be so tired in 
 the evenings, John.' 
 
 ' You rest me,' he said, looking up into her face. ' It is a rest 
 even to sit here beside you. Do you know, Helen,' he went on, 
 after a moment's pause, ' if I were in any pain, I mean any phy- 
 sical extremity, I would have strength to bear it if I could hold 
 your hand ; it is so strong and steady.' 
 
 She lifted her hand, and looked at it with unusual curiosity, 
 turning it about, ' to get the best light upon it.' 
 
 ' I am in earnest,' John said, smiling. ' It is the visible expres- 
 sion of the strength you are to me. With your help I could 
 endure any pain. I wonder,' he went on, in a lower voice, as 
 though thinking aloud, ' if this strength of yours could inspire me 
 to bear the worst pain there could be for me I mean, if I had to 
 make you suffer in any way ? ' 
 
 Helen looked down at him, surprised, not quite understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Suppose,' he said * of course one can suppose anything 
 that for your best good I had to make you suffer ; could I, do you 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' I hope so,' she answered, gravely ; ' I hope I should give you 
 strength to do it.' i 
 
 They fell again into their contented silence, watching the fire- 
 light, and thinking tenderly each of the other. But at last Helen 
 roused herself from her reverie with a long, pleasant sigh of entire 
 peace and comfort. 
 
 'John, do you know, I have reached a conclusion. I'm not 
 going to prayer-meeting any more.' 
 
 John started. 'Why, Helen! ' he said, a thrill of pain in hia 
 voice.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. fj 
 
 But Helen was not at all troubled. ' No, dear. Feeling deeply 
 as I do about certain things, it is worse than useless for me to 
 go and hear Elder Dean or old Mr. Smith ; they either annoy me 
 or amuse me, and I don't know which is worse, I have heard Mr. 
 Smith thank the Lord that we are not among the pale and sheered 
 nations of the dead, ever since I came to Lockhaven. And 
 Elder Dean's pictures of the eternal torments of the damned, 
 ' souls writhing in sulphurous flames ' (those were his words, to- 
 night, John !), and then praising God for his justice (His justice !] 
 right afterwards I cannot stand it, dear. I do not believe it 
 hell, such a hell, and so it is absurd to go and listen to such things. 
 But I won't miss my walk with you,' she added, 'for I will come 
 and meet you every Wednesday evening, and we'll come home 
 together. 
 
 John had risen as sne talked, and stood leaning against the 
 mantel, his face hidden by his hand. Her lightly spoken words 
 had come with such a shock, the blood leaped back to his heart, 
 and for a moment he could not speak. He had never allowed 
 himself tc realize that her indifference to doctrine was positive 
 unbeliei , Jad his neglect encouraged her ignorance to grow into 
 this? 
 
 At last he said very gently, ' But, dearest, I believe in hell.' 
 
 ' I know it,' she answered, no longer carelessly, but still smiling, 
 ' but never mind. I mean, it does not make any difference to me 
 what you believe. I wouldn't care if you were a Mahommedan, 
 John, if it helped you to be good and happy. I think that 
 different people have different religious necessities. One man is 
 born a Roman Catholic, for instance, though his father and 
 mother may be the sternest Protestants. He cannot help it ; 
 it is his nature ! And you ' she looked up at him with infinite 
 tenderness in her brown eyes ' you were born a Presbyterian, 
 dear ; you can't help it. Perhaps you need the sternness and the 
 horror of some of the doctrines as a balance for your gentleness. 
 I never knew anyone as gentle as you, John.' 
 
 He came and knelt down beside her, holding her face between 
 his hands, and looking into her clear eyes. ' Helen,' he said, ' I 
 have wanted to speak to you of this ; I have wanted to show you 
 the truth. You will not say you cannot believe in hell (in justice, 
 Helen) when I prove ' 
 
 ' Don't prove,' she interrupted him, putting her hand softly 
 across his lips, ' don't let us argue. Oh, a theological argument 
 seems to me sacrilege, and dogma can never be an antidote for 
 doubt, John. I must believe what my own soul asserts, or I am 
 untrue to myself. I must begin with that truth, even if it keeps 
 me on the outskirts of the great Truth. Don't you think so dear ? 
 And I do not believe in hell. Now, that is final, John." 
 
 She smiled brightly into his troubled face, and, seeing his 
 anxiety, hastened to save him further pain in the future. ' Do
 
 54 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 not let us ever discuss these things. After all, doctrine o 
 little importance, and argument never can result in conviction 
 either of us, for belief is a matter of temperament, and I do 
 dislike it. It really distresses me.' 
 
 ' But, dearest,' he said, ' to deliberately turn away from the 
 search for truth is spiritual suicide.' 
 
 ' Oh, you misunderstand me,' she replied quickly. ' Of course 
 one's soul always seeks for truth, but to argue, to discuss details, 
 whicbj^fter all are of no possible importance, no more part of the 
 eternal verities than a man's buttons are of his character! 
 Now, remember,' with smiling- severity, ' never again ! ' She 
 laid her head down on his shoulder. ' We are so happy, John, 
 no happy ; why should we disturb the peace Vf life ? Never 
 mind what we think on such matters ; we have each other, 
 dear ! ' 
 
 He was silenced , trtth her clinging arm about him, and her 
 tender eyes looking into his, he could not argue ; he was the 
 lover, not the preacher. 
 
 He kissed her between her level brows ; it was easy to forget 
 his duty ! Yet his conscience protested faintly. ' If you would 
 only let me tell you ' 
 
 ' Not just now,' she said, and Helen's voice was a caress. ' Do 
 you remember how, that first time we saw each other, you talked 
 of belief ? ' It was so natural to drift into reminiscence, kneeling 
 there in the firelight by her side, John almost forgot how the talk 
 had begun, and neither of them gave a thought to the lateness of 
 the hour, until they were roused by a quick step on the path, and 
 heard the little gate pushed hurriedly open, shutting again with a 
 bang. 
 
 'Why, that's Gifford Woodhouse,' John said, leaning forward 
 to give the fire that inevitable poke with which the coming guest 
 is welcomed. 
 
 'No, it can't be Giff,' Helen answered, listening; 'he always 
 whistles.' 
 
 But it was Gifford. The quick-leaping flame lighted his face 
 as he entered, and Helen saw that, instead of its usual tranqui? 
 good-nature, there was a worried look. 
 
 'I'm afraid I'm disturbing you,' he said, as they both rose to 
 welcome him, and there was a little confusion of lighting the 
 lamp and drawing up a chair. ' Haven't I interrupted you ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' John replied, simply, 'but it is well you did. I have 
 some writing I must do to-night, and I had forgotten it. You 
 and Helen will excuse me if I leave you a little while ? ' 
 
 Both the others protested : Gifford said he was driving Mr. 
 Ward, from his own fireside, and Helen that it was too late tor 
 work. 
 
 ' No, you are not driving me away. My papers are upstairs. 
 I will see you again,' he added, turning to Gifford; and then
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 5 5 
 
 hp closed the door, and they heard his step in the room 
 above. 
 
 The interruption had brought him back to real life. He left 
 the joy which befogged his conscience, and felt again that chill 
 and shock which Helen's words had given him, and that sudden 
 pang of remorse for a neglected duty ; he wanted to be alone, and 
 to face his own thoughts. His writing did not detain him long, 
 and afterwards he paced the chilly room, struggling to see his 
 duty through his love. But in that half-hour upstairs he reached 
 no new conclusion. Helen's antipathy to doctrine was so marked : 
 it was, as she said, useless to begin discussion : and it would be 
 worse than useless to urge her to come to the prayer-meeting, if 
 she did not want to : it would only make her antagonistic to the 
 truth. She was not ready for the strong meat of the Word, which 
 was certainly what his elders offered to hungry souls at prayer- 
 meetings. John did not know that there was any reluctance in 
 his own mind to disturb their harmony and peace by argument ; 
 he simply failed to recognize his own motives ; the reasons he 
 gave himself were all secondary. 
 
 ' I ought not to have come so late,' Gifford said ; ' and it is a 
 shame to disturb Mr. Ward ; but I did want to see you so much, 
 Helen ! ' 
 
 Helen's thoughts were following her husband, and it was an 
 effort to bring them back to Gifford and his interests ; but she 
 turned her tranquil face to him with a gracious gentleness which 
 never left her. 'He will come back again,' she said; 'and he 
 will be glad to have this writing off his mind to-night. I was 
 only afraid he might take cold ; you know he .has a stubborn little 
 cough. Why did you want to see me, Giff ? ' 
 
 She took some knitting from her work-table, and, shaking out 
 its fleecy softness, began to work, the big wooden needles making 
 a velvety sound as they rubbed together. Gifford was opposite 
 her, his hands thrust moodily into his pockets, his feet straight 
 out, and his head sunk on his breast. But he did not look as 
 though he. were resting ; an intent anxiety seemed to pervade his 
 big frame, and Helen could not fail to observe it. She glanced 
 at him, as he sat frowning into the fire, but he did not notice 
 her. 
 
 ' Something troubles you, Gifford.' 
 
 He started. ' Yes,' he said. He changed his position, lean- 
 ing his elbows on his knees, and propping his chin on his fists, 
 and still scowling at the fire. ' Yes, I came to speak to you 
 about it.' 
 
 ' I wish you would,' Helen answered. But Gifford found it 
 difficult to begin. 
 
 ' I've had a letter from Aunt Ruth to-day,' he said at last, ' and 
 it has bothered me. I don't know how to tell you, exactly ; you 
 will think it's none of my business.'
 
 56 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' Is there anything- wrong at the rectory ? ' Helen asked, putting 
 down her work, and drawing- a quick breath. 
 
 ' Oh no, no, of course not,' answered Gifford, ' nothing- like that. 
 The fact is, Helen the fact is well, plainly, Aunt Ruth thinks 
 that that young Forsythe is in love with Lois.' 
 
 Gifford' s manner, as he spoke, told Helen what she had only 
 surmised before, and she was betrayed into an involuntary ex- 
 pression of sympathy. 
 
 ' Oh,' cried the young man, with an impatient gesture and a 
 sudden flush tingling across his face, 'you misunderstand me. I 
 haven't come to whine about myself, or anything like that. I am 
 not jealous ; for Heaven's sake, do not think I am such a cur as 
 to be jealous ! If that man was worthy of Lois, I why, I would 
 be the first one to rejoice that she was happy. I want Lois to be 
 happy, from my soul ! I hope you believe me, Helen ? ' 
 
 ' I believe anything you tell me,' she answered gently ; ' but I 
 don't quite understand how you feel about Mr. Forsythe every- 
 body speaks so highly of him. Even Aunt Deely has only pleasant 
 things to say of ' young Forsythe,' as she calls him.' 
 
 Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his 
 hands grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back 
 in a troubled sort of impatience. 'That's just it,' he said; 'in 
 this very letter Aunt Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you 
 anything tangible against him, only I do not like him, Helen. 
 He's a puppy that's the amount of it. And I thought I 
 just thought I would come and ask you if you supposed if you 
 of course, I have no business to ask any questions but if you 
 thought ' 
 
 But Helen had understood his vague inquiry. ' I should think,' 
 she said, ' you would know that if he is what you call a upy t 
 Lois couldn't care for him.' 
 
 Gifford sat down, and took her ball of wool, beginning nervously 
 to unwind it, and then wind it up again. 
 
 ' Perhaps she wouldn't see it,' he said tentatively. 
 
 ' Ah, you don't trust her ! ' Helen cried brightly ; ' or you would 
 not say that. (Don't tie my worsted into knots !) When you write 
 to Lois, why don't you frankly say what you think of him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I could not,' he responded quickly. ' Don't you see, 
 Helen, I'm a young fellow myself, and and you know Lois did 
 not care for me when I told her. And if I said anything now, 
 
 much that if I saw her happy with any other man (who was worthy 
 of her!) I'd be glad ! ' 
 
 Helen looked doubtful, but did not discuss that ; she ran her 
 hand along her needle, and gave her elastic work a pull. ' Tell 
 me more about him,' she said.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 57 
 
 But Gifford had not much to tell ; it was only his vague distrust 
 of the man, which it was difficult to put into words. 'A good 
 out-and-out sinner one can stand,' he ended ; ' but all I saw of 
 this Forsythe at the club and about town only made me set him 
 down as a small man, a a puppy, as I said. And I thought I'd 
 talk to you about it, because, when you write to Lois, you might 
 just hint, you know.' 
 
 But Helen shook her head. ' No, Gifford, that never does any 
 good at all. And I do not believe it is needed. The only thing 
 to do now is to trust Lois. I have no anxiety about her ; if he is 
 what you say, her own ideal will protect her. Ah, Giff, I'm 
 disappointed in you. I shouldn't have thought you could doubt 
 Lois/ 
 
 ' I don't ! ' he cried ; ' only I am so afraid ! ' 
 
 ' But you shouldn't be afraid,' Helen said, smiling ; ' a girl like 
 Lois couldn't love a man who was not good and noble. Perhaps, 
 Gifford,' she ventured, after a moment's pause ' perhaps it will 
 be all right for you, some time.' 
 
 ' No, no,' he answered ; ' I dont dare to think of it.' 
 
 Helen might have given him more courage, but John came in, 
 and Gifford realized that it was very late. ' Helen has scolded 
 me, Mr. Ward,' he said ; ' and it has done me good.' 
 
 John turned and looked at her. ' Can she scold ? ' he said. 
 And when Gifford glanced back, as he went down the street, 
 he saw them still standing in the doorway in the starlight ; 
 Helen leaning back a little against John's arm, so that she might 
 see his face. The clear warm pallor of her cheek glowed faintly 
 in the frosty air. 
 
 Gifford sighed as he walked on. ' They are very happy,' he 
 thought. ' Well, that sort of happiness may never be for me, 
 but it is something to love a good woman. I have got that in my 
 life, anyhow.' 
 
 Helen's confidence in her cousin's instinct might perhaps have 
 been shaken had she known what pleasure Lois found in the com- 
 panionship of Mr. Forsythe, and how that pleasure was encour- 
 aged by all her friends. That very evening, while Gifford was 
 pouring his anxieties into her ear, Lois was listening to Dick's 
 pictures of the gaieties of social life; the 'jolly times,' as he 
 expressed it, which she had never known. 
 
 Dr. Howe was reading, with an indignant exclamation occa- 
 sionally, a scathing review of an action of his political candidate, 
 and his big newspaper hid the two young people by the fire, so 
 that ht*quite forgot them. Max seemed to feel thatthe respon- 
 sibility of propriety rested upon him, and he sat with his head on 
 Lois' knee, and his drowsy eyes blinking at Mr. Forsythe. His 
 mistress pulled his silky ears gently, or knotted them behind his 
 head, giving him a curiously astonished and grieved look, as 
 though he felt she trifled with his dignity ; yet he did not move
 
 5l JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 his head, but watched, with no affection in his soft brown eyes, 
 the young man who talked so eagerly to Lois. 
 
 ' That brute hates me,' said Mr. Forsythe ; ' and yet I took the 
 trouble to bring him a biscuit to-day. Talk of gratitude and 
 affection in animals ! They dont know what it means ! ' 
 
 ' Max loves me,' Lsos answered, taking the setter's iiead between 
 her hands. 
 
 ' Ah, well, that's different,' cried Forsythe ; ' of course he does 
 I'd like to know how he could help it. He wouldn't be fit to live, 
 if he didn't.' 
 
 Lois raised the hand-screen she held, so that Dick could only 
 see the curls about her forehead and one small curve of her ear. 
 ' How hot the fire is ! ' she said. 
 
 Dr. Howe folded his newspaper with much crackling and widely 
 opened arms. ' Don't sit so near it. In my young days the 
 children were never allowed to come any nearer the fireplace than 
 the outside of the hearthrug.' Then he began to read again, 
 muttering, ' Confound that reporter ! ' 
 
 Dick glanced at him, and then he said, in a low voice, ' Max 
 loves you because you are so kind to him, Miss Lois ; it is worth 
 while to be a dog to have you ' 
 
 ' Give him bones ? ' Lois cried hurriedly. ' Yes, it is too hot in 
 here, father; don't you think so ? Don't you want me to open the 
 window ? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe looked up surprised. ' If you want to, child,' he 
 said. ' Dear me, I'm afraid I have not been very entertaining, 
 Mr. Forsythe. What do you think of this attack on our candidate ? 
 Contemptible, is it not ? What ? I have no respect for anyone 
 who can think it anything but abominable and outrageous.' 
 
 ' It's scandalous ! ' Dick answered ; and then in a smiling 
 whisper to Lois, he added, 'I'm afraid to tell the doctor I am 
 a Democrat.' 
 
 But when Lois was quite alone that night, she found herself 
 smiling in the darkness, and a thrill of pride made her cheeks 
 hotter than the fire had done. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'YES/ said Miss Deborah Woodhouse, as she stood in the 
 doorway of Miss Ruth's studio 'yes, we must give a dinner- 
 party, sister. It is certainly the proper thing to do, now that 
 the Forsythes are going back to the city. It is to be expected of 
 us, sister.' 
 
 'Well, I don't know that it is expected of us,' said Miss Ruth, 
 who never agreed too readily to any suggestion of Mis* Deborah's
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 59 
 
 ' but I think we ought to do it. I meant to have spoken to you 
 about it.' 
 
 Miss Ruth was washing some brushes, a task her soul abhorred, 
 for it was almost impossible to avoid some stain upon her apron 
 or her hands ; though, to guard against the latter, she wore gloves. 
 The corners of Miss Ruth's mouth were drawn down and her 
 eyebrows lifted up, and her whole face was a protest against her 
 work. On her easel was a canvas, where she had begun a sketch 
 purporting to be apple-blossoms. 
 
 The studio was dark, for a mist of November rain blurred all 
 the low gray sky. The wide south-east window, which ran the 
 length of the woodshed (this part of which was devoted to art), 
 was streaming with water, and though the dotted muslin curtain 
 was pushed as far back as it would go, very little light struggled 
 into the room. The dim engravings of nymphs and satyrs, in 
 tarnished frames, which had been hung here to make room in the 
 house for Miss Ruth's own productions, could scarcely be distin- 
 guished in the gloom, and though the artist wore her glasses she 
 could not see to work. 
 
 So she had pushed back her easel, and began to make things 
 tidy for Sunday. Any sign of disorder would have greatly dis- 
 tressed Miss Ruth. Even her paint-tubes were kept scrupulously 
 bright and clean, and nothing was ever out of place. Perhaps 
 this made the room in the woodshed a little dreary ; certainly it 
 looked so now to Miss Deborah, standing in the doorway, and 
 seeing the gaunt whitewashed walls, the bare rafters, and the 
 sweeping rain against the window. 
 
 'Do, sister,' she entreated, 'come into the house, and let us 
 arrange about the dinner.' 
 
 ' No,' said Miss Ruth, sighing ; ' I must wash these brushes.' 
 
 ' Why not let Sarah do it ? ' asked the other, stepping over 
 a little stream of water which had forced itself under the 
 threshold. 
 
 'Now, surely, sister,' said Miss Ruth, pettishly, 'you know 
 Sarah would get the colour on the handles. But there ! I 
 suppose you don't know how artistic people feel about such 
 things.' She stopped long enough to take off her gloves and tre 
 the strings of her long white apron a little tighter about her trim 
 waist ; then she went to work again. 
 
 ' No, I suppose I don't understand,' Miss Deborah acknow- 
 ledged ; ' but never mind, we can talk here, only it is a little 
 damp. When do you think of asking them for Thursday? It is 
 a good day for a dinner-party. You are well over the washing 
 and ironing, you know, and you have Wednesday for the jellies 
 and creams, besides a good two hours in the afternoxan to get out 
 the best china and see to the silver. Friday is for cleaning? up 
 and putting things away, because Saturday one is always busy 
 getting ready for Sunday.'
 
 60 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Miss Ruth demurred. ' I should rather have it on a Friday.' 
 
 'Well, you don't know anything about the housekeeping part 
 of it,' said Miss Deborah promptly. 'And I do not believe 
 William Denner would want to come then ; you know he is quite 
 superstitious about Friday. Besides, it is not convenient to me,' 
 she added, settling the matter once for all. 
 
 ' Oh, I've no objection to Thursday,' said Miss Ruth. ' I don't 
 know but that I prefer it. Yes, we will have it on Thursday.' 
 Having thus asserted herself, Miss Ruth began to put away her 
 paints and cover her canvas. 
 
 ' It is a pity the whist was put off to-night," said Miss Deborah ; 
 ' we could have arranged it at the rectory. But if I see Adele 
 Dale to-morrow, I'll tell her.' 
 
 ' I beg,' said Miss Ruth, quickly, 'that you will do nothing of 
 the sort.' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Miss Deborah. 
 
 ' We will write the invitations, if you please,' said Miss Ruth, 
 loftily. 
 
 ' Fiddlesticks ! ' retorted the other. ' We'll write the Forsythes, 
 of course, but the people at the rectory and Adele Dale ? non- 
 sense. 
 
 ' It is not nonsense,' Miss Ruth answered; 'it is proper, and 
 it must be done. I understand these things, Deborah ; you are 
 so taken up with your cooking, you cannot really be expected to 
 know. When you invite city people to a formal dinner, every- 
 thing must be done decently and in order. It is not like asking 
 the rector and Adele to drop in to tea any time.' 
 
 ' Fudge ! ' responded Miss Deborah. 
 
 A faint colour began to show in Miss Ruth's faded cheek, 
 and she set her lips firmly. ' The invitations should be written,' 
 she said. 
 
 It was settled, as usual, by each sister doing exactly as she 
 pleased. Miss Deborah gave her invitations by word of mouth 
 the next day, standing in the rain, under a dripping umbrella, by 
 the church porch, while on Monday each of the desired guests 
 received a formal note in Miss Ruth's precise and delicate hand, 
 containing the compliments of the Misses Woodhouse, and a 
 request for the honour of their company at dinner en Thursday, 
 November I2th, at half-past six o'clock. 
 
 A compromise had been effected about the hour. Miss Ruth 
 had insisted that it should be eight, while Miss Deborah contended 
 that as they dined, like all the rest of Ashurst, at noon, it was 
 absurd to make it later than six, and Miss Ruth's utmost 
 persuasion had only brought it to half-past. 
 
 During these days of preparation Miss Ruth could only flutter 
 upon the outskirts of the kitchen, which just now was a solemn 
 place, and her suggestions were scarcely noticed, and never 
 heeded. It was hard to have no share in those long conversations
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 61 
 
 between Sarah and her sister, and not to know the result of the 
 mysterious researches among the receipts which had been written 
 out on foolscap and bound in marbled paste-board before Miss 
 Deborah was born. 
 
 Her time, however, came. Miss Deborah owned that no one 
 could arrange a table like Miss Ruth. The tall silver candle- 
 sticks with twisted arf^s, the fruit in the open-work china baskets, 
 the slender-stemme',/ glasses for the wines, the decanters in the 
 queer old coasters t and the great bunch of chrysanthemums in 
 the silver punch-'jowl in the centre no one could place them so 
 perfectly as her sister. 
 
 ' Ruth,' she affirmed, 'has a touch,' and she contemplated the 
 board with great satisfaction. 
 
 ' Pray,' said Miss Ruth, as she quietly put back in its place a 
 fruit-dish which Miss Deborah had 'straightened,' 'pray where 
 are Mr. Dale's comfits ? They must be on the tray to be taken 
 into the parlour.' 
 
 'Sarah will fetch them,' answered Miss Deborah; and at that 
 moment Sarah entered with the candy and a stately and elaborate 
 dish which she placed upon the side. 
 
 ' Poor, dear man,' said Miss Ruth. ' I suppose he never gets 
 all the candy he wishes at home. I trust there is plenty for to- 
 night, sister ? But what is that Sarah just brought in ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' Miss Deborah replied, with anxious pride in her tone, 
 ' it is not Easter, I know, but it does look so well I thought I'd 
 make it, anyhow. It is Sic itur ad astra.' 
 
 This dish had been ' composed ' by Miss Deborah many years 
 ago, and was considered by all her friends her greatest triumph. 
 Dr. Howe had christened it, declaring that it was of a semi- 
 religious nature, but in Miss Deborah's pronounciation the Latin 
 was no longer recognisable. 
 
 It consisted of an arrangement of strips of candied orange and 
 lemon peel, intended to represent a nest of straw. On it were 
 placed jellied creams in different colours, which had been run 
 into egg-shells to stiffen. The whole was intended to suggest a 
 nest of new-laid eggs. The housekeeper will at once recognise 
 the trouble and expense of such a dish, as the shells which served 
 for moulds had first to be emptied of their contents through a 
 small hole in one end, hopelessly mixing the whites and yolks, 
 and leaving them useless for fine cookery. 
 
 No wonder, then, that Miss Deborah's face beamed with pride. 
 But Miss Ruth's showed nothing but contempt. ' That that 
 barn-door dish ! ' she ejaculated. 
 
 ' Barn-door? ' faltered Miss Deborah. 
 
 'Barn-yard, I mean,' said her sister sternly. 'The idea of 
 naving such a thing ! Easter is the only excuse for it It is 
 dignified it is absurd it is preposterous ! ' 
 
 ' It is good,' Miss Deborah maintained stoutly.
 
 6a JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' I don't deny that,' said Miss Ruth, thinking they would have 
 it for dinner the next day, and perhaps the next also for it takes 
 more than one day for a family of two to eat up the remnants of a 
 dinner-party 'but you must see it is out of place at a formal 
 dinner. It must not appear.' 
 
 Discussion was useless. Each was determined, for each felt 
 her particular province had been invaded. And each carried her 
 point. The dish did not appear on the table, yet every guest was 
 asked u he or she would have some ' Sicituraaxstra ' for to the 
 housemaid it was one word which was on the sideboard. 
 
 But the anxieties of the dinner were not over even when 
 the table was as beautiful and stately as could be desired, and 
 Miss Deborah was conscious that every dish was perfect. The 
 two little ladies, tired, but satisfied, had yet to dress. Sarah had 
 put the best black silks on the bed in each room, but for the 
 lighter touches of the toilets the sisters were their own judges. 
 Miss Deborah must decide what laces she should wear, and 
 long did Miss Ruth stand at her dressing-table, wondering 
 whether to pin the pale lavender ribbon at her throat or the 
 silver-gray one. 
 
 Miss Deborah was dressed first. She wore a miniature of 
 her great-grandfather as a pin, and her little fingers were 
 covered with rings in strange old-fashioned settings. Her small 
 figure had an unusual dignity in the lustrous silk, which was 
 turned away at the neck, and filled with point-lace that looked 
 like frosted cobwebs. The sleeves of her own gown were full, and 
 gathered into a wristband over point-lace ruffles which almost 
 hid her little hands, folded primly in front of her. ' Little 
 bishops ' Miss Deborah called these sleeves, and she was apt to 
 say that, for her part, she thought a closely fitting sleeve was 
 hardly modest. Her full skirt rustled, as, holding herself very 
 straight, she came into her sister's room, that they might go 
 down together. 
 
 Miss Ruth was still in her gray linsey-woolsey petticoat, 
 short enough to show her trim ankles in their black open- 
 worked silk stockings. She stood with one hand resting on the 
 open drawer of her bureau, and in the other the two soft bits of 
 ribbon, that held the faint fragrance of rose-leave? which clung 
 to all her possessions. Miss Ruth would never have confessed it, 
 but she was thinking that Mr. Forsythe was a very genteel young 
 man, and she wished she knew which ribbon would be more 
 becoming-. 
 
 ' Ruth ! ' said Deborah, in majestic disapproval. 
 
 The younger sister gave a little jump of fright, and dropped 
 the ribbons hastily, as though she feared Miss Deborah had 
 detected her thoughts. ' I I'll be ready directly, sister.' 
 
 ' I hope so, indeed,' said Miss Deborah severely, and moved 
 with deliberate dignity from the loom, while Mis& Ruth, much
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 63 
 
 fluttered, took her dress from the high bedstead, which had four 
 cherry-wood posts, carved in alternate balloons and disks, and a 
 striped dimity valance. 
 
 She still realized the importance of the right ribbon, and the 
 responsibility of choice oppressed her ; but it was too late for any 
 further thought. She shut her eyes tight, and, with a trembling 
 little hand, picked up the first one she touched. Satisfied, since 
 fate so decided it, that gray was the right color, she pinned it 
 at her throat with an old brooch of chased and twisted gold, and 
 gave a last glance at her swinging glass before joining her sister 
 in the parlor. The excitement had brought a faint flush into her 
 soft cheek, and her eyes were brigsfet, and the gray ribbon had a 
 pretty gleam in it. Miss Ruth gave her hair a little pat over each 
 ear, and felt a thrill of forgotten vanity. 
 
 ' It's high time you were down, Ruth,' cried Miss Deborah, who 
 stood on the rug in front of the blazing fire, rubbing her hands 
 nervously together ' high time ! ' 
 
 ' Why, they won't be nere for a quarter of an hour yet, sister/ 
 protested Miss Ruth. 
 
 ' Well, you should be here 1 I do hope they won't be late ; the 
 venison is to be taken out of the tin kitchen precisely at five 
 minutes to seven. Do, pray, sister, step into the hall and see 
 what o'clock it is. I really am afraid they are late." 
 
 Miss Ruth went, but had scarcely crossed the threshold when 
 Miss Deborah cried, ' Come back, come back, Ruth ! You must 
 be here when they come,' and then bustled away herself to fetch 
 the housemaid to be ready to open the door, though, as Miss Ruth 
 had said, it was a good quarter of an hour before the most 
 impatient guest might be expected. 
 
 Miss Ruth went about, straightening a chair, or pulling an 
 antimacassar to one side or the other, or putting an ornament 
 in a better light, and then stopping to snuff the candles in the 
 brass sconces on either side of the old piano. This and her 
 anxiety about the venison fretted Miss Deborah so much, it 
 was a great relief to hear the first carriage, and catch a glimpse 
 of Mrs. Dale hurrying across the hall and up the stairs, her 
 well-known brown satin tucked up to avoid a speck of mud or 
 dust. 
 
 Miss Deborah plucked Miss Ruth's sleeve, and, settling the 
 lace at her own throat and wrists, bade her sister stand beside 
 her on the rug. 'And do, dear Ruth, try and have more 
 repose of manner,' she said, breathing quite quickly with excita 
 ment. 
 
 When Mrs Dale entered, rustling in her shiny satin, with Mr 
 Dale shambling along behind her, the sisters greeted her with 
 that stately affection which was part of the occasion. 
 
 'So glad to see you, dear Adele,' said Miss Deborah and 
 Miss Ruth in turn; and Mrs. Dale responded with equal 
 
 B
 
 64 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 graciousness, and no apparent recollection that they had almost 
 quarrelled that very morning at the post-office, when Mrs. Dale 
 said that the first cloth to be removed at a dinner should be 
 folded in fours, and Miss Deborah that it should be folded in 
 threes. 
 
 Mr. Denner was next to arrive, and while he was still making 
 his bow the Forsythes came in ; Dick looking over the heads of 
 the little ladies, as though in search of someone else, and his 
 mother languidly acknowledging that it was an effort to come out 
 in the evening. Lois and the rector came with Colonel Drayton, 
 and Miss" Deborah breathed a sigh of relief that the venison would 
 not be kept waiting. 
 
 Then Miss Deborah took Mrs. Forsythe's arm, while Miss Ruth 
 and Dick closed the little procession, and they marched into the 
 dining-room, and took their places about the table, glittering 
 with silver and glass, and lighted by gleaming wax tapers. It 
 had not occurred to the little ladies to place Dick near Lois. Mrs. 
 Drayton was the lady upon his right, and Lois was between such 
 unimportant people as Mr. Denner and Mr. Dale. 
 
 Dick was the lion of the dinner, and all that he said was listened 
 to with deference, and even awe. But it was a relief to Lois not 
 to have to talk to him. She sat now at Mr. Denner's side, listen- 
 ing to the small stream of words bubbling along in a cheerful 
 monotony, with scarcely a period for her answers. She was glad 
 it was so ; for though her apple-blossom face was drooped a little, 
 and her gray eyes were not often lifted, and she looked the 
 embodiment of maiden innocence and unworldliness, Lois was 
 thinking the thoughts which occupied her much of late ; weighing, 
 and judging, struggling to reach some knowledge of herself, yet 
 always in the same perplexity. Did she love Dick Forsythe ? 
 There was no doubt in her mind that she loved the life he repre- 
 sented ; but further than this she could not go. Yet he was so 
 kind, she thought, and loved her so much. If, then and there, 
 Dick could have whispered the question which was trembling on 
 his lips, Lois was near enough to love to have said 'Yes.' 
 
 Dinnef was nearly over ; that last desultory conversation had 
 begun, which was to be ended by a bow from Miss Deborah to 
 Mrs. Forsythe, and the ladies were dipping their nuts in their 
 wine, half listening, and half watching for the signal to rise. 
 
 ' How much we miss Gifford on such an occasion! ' said. Mr. 
 Dale to Miss Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the little lady, ' dear Giff ! How I wish he were 
 here ! He would so enjoy meeting Mr. Forsythe.' 
 
 Lois smiled involuntarily, and the current of her thoughts sud- 
 denly turned. She saw again the fragrant dusk of the rectory 
 garden, and heard the wind in the silver-poplar and the tremble 
 in a strong voice at her side. 
 
 She was as perplexed as ever when the ladies went back to the
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 63 
 
 parlor. Mrs. Forsythe came to her, as they passed through the 
 hall, and took the young girl's hand in hers. 
 
 ' I shall miss you very much this winter, Lois/ she said, in her 
 mildly complaining voice. ' You have been very good to me ; no 
 daughter could have been more thoughtful. And I could not 
 have loved a daughter of my own more,' She gently patted the 
 hand she held, ' Dick is not very happy, my dear.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry,' faltered Lois. 
 
 They had reached the parlor door, and Mrs. Forsythe bent her 
 head towards the girl's ear. ' I hope I trust he will be, before 
 we leave Ashurst.' 
 
 Lois turned away abruptly ; how could she grieve this gentle 
 invalid ! 
 
 ' She'll find out what Arabella Forsythe is, one of these days/ 
 Mrs. Dale thought, ' but it's just as well she should love her for 
 the present.' Nor did she lose the opportunity of using her in- 
 fluence to bring about the desired consummation. 
 
 Lois had gone, at Miss Deborah's request, to the piano, and 
 begun to sing, in her sweet girlish voice, some old-fashioned songs 
 which the sisters liked. 
 
 ' Jamie's on the stormy sea ! ' sang Lois, but her voice trembled, 
 and she missed a note, for Mrs. Dale had left the group of ladies 
 about the fire, and bent over her shoulder. 
 
 ' You know they go on Saturday, Lois,' she said. ' Do, now, 
 I beg of you, be a sensible girl. I never saw a man so much in 
 love. You will be perfectly happy, if you will only be sensible ! 
 1 hope you will be at home alone to-morrow.' 
 
 When the gentlemen entered, Dick Forsythe was quick to 
 make his way to Lois, sitting in the glimmer of the wax-lights in 
 the sconces, at the old piano. 
 
 She stopped, and let her hands fall with a soft crash on the 
 yellow keys. 
 
 ' Do go on,' he pleaded. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' it is too cold over here ; let us go to the fire,' 
 and she slipped away to her father's side. After that she was 
 silent until it was time to say good-night, for no one expected 
 her to speak, although Dick was the centre of the group, and did 
 most of the talking. Later in the evening they had some whist, 
 and after that, just before the party broke up, Mr. Denner was 
 asked to sing. 
 
 He rose, coughed deprecatingly, and glanced sidewise it Mr. 
 Forsythe; he feared he was out of tune. But Miss Deborah 
 insisted with great politeness. 
 
 ' If Miss Rath would be so good as to accompany me,' said Mr. 
 Denner, I might at least make the attempt.' 
 
 Miss Ruth was shy about playing in public, but Mr. Denner 
 encouraged her, 'You must overcome your timidity, my dear 
 Miss Ruth,' he said. ' I I am aware that it is quite painful
 
 ,66 JOHN WARD, fREACHER. 
 
 but one ought not to allow it to become a habit, as it were. It 
 should be conquered in early life.' 
 
 So Miss Ruth allowed him to lead her to the piano. There was 
 a little stir about finding the music, before they were ready to 
 begin ; then Mr. Denner ran his fingers through his brown wig, 
 and, placing his small lean hands on his hips, rocked backwards 
 and forwards on his little heels, while he sang in a sweet, but 
 somewhat light and uncertain voice, 
 
 ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
 
 Bonnie lassie ! artless lassie ! 
 Will ye wi' me tent the flocks, 
 
 Will ye be my dearie, O ? ' 
 
 This was received with great applause ; then everyone said 
 good-night, assuring each sister that it had been a delightful 
 evening ; and finally the last carriage rolled off into the darkness, 
 and the Misses Woodhouse were left, triumphantly exhausted, to 
 discuss the dinner and the guests. 
 
 The rector walked home with Mr. Denner, who was still flushed 
 with the praise of his singing, so Lois had the carriage all to her- 
 self, and tried to struggle against the fresh impulse of irresolution 
 which Mrs. Forsythe's whispered 'Good-night, Lois; be good to 
 my boy ! ' had given her. 
 
 She went into the library at the rectory, and, throwing off her 
 wrap, sat down on the hearth-rug, and determined to make up 
 her mind. But first she had to put a fresh log on the andirons, 
 and then work away with the wheezy old bellows, until a leaping 
 flame lighted the shadowy room. The log was green, and instead 
 of deciding, she found herself listening to the soft bubbling noise 
 of the sap, and thinking it was the little singing ghosts of the 
 summer birds. Max came and put his head on her knee, to be 
 petted, and Lois' thoughts wandered off to the dinner-party, and 
 Mr. Denner' s singing, and what good things Miss Deborah 
 cooked, and how much his aunts must miss Gifford ; so that she 
 did not even hear the front door open, or know that Dick Forsythe 
 had entered, until she heard Max snarl, and someone said, in a 
 tone which lacked its usual assurance, ' I I hope I'm not disturb- 
 ing- you, Miss Lois ? ' 
 
 She was on her feet before he had a chance to help her rise, and 
 looked at him with the frankest astonishment and dismay. 
 
 What would Aunt Deely say, what would Miss Deborah tnink ? 
 A young woman receiving a gentleman alone after ten at night ! 
 ' Father is not home yet,' she said hastily, so confused and startled 
 she scarcely knrw what she was saying. ' How dark it is in here ! 
 The fire has dtj/led my eyes. I'll get a light.' 
 
 ' Oh, doa't/ he said ; ' I like the firelight.' But she had gone, 
 cams '.ack again with Sally, who carried the lamps, and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 6? 
 
 coked very much surprised, for Sally knew Ashurst ways better 
 than Mr. Forsythe did : her young man always went home at 
 nine. 
 
 ' How pleasant it was at Miss Deborah's ! ' Lois began, when 
 Sally had gone out, and she was left alone to see the anxiety in 
 Dick's face. ' Nobody has such nice dinners as Miss Deborah 
 and Miss Ruth.' 
 
 Lois' voice was not altogether firm, yet, to her own surprise, 
 she began to feel quite calm, and almost indifferent ; she knew 
 why Dick had come, but she did not even then know what her 
 answer would be. 
 
 ' Yes no I don't know,' he answered. ' The fact is, I only 
 seemed to live, Miss Lois, until I could get here to see you 
 to-night. I heard your father say he was going home with Denner, 
 and I thought you'd be alone. So I came. I could not stand 
 any more suspense,' he added, with something like a sob in his 
 voice. 
 
 Lois' heart gave one jump of fright, and then was quiet. She 
 thought, vaguely, that she was glad he had rushed into it at once, 
 so that she need not keep up that terrible fencing, but she did 
 not speak. She had been sitting in a corner of the leather- 
 covered sofa, and his excitement, as he stood looking at her, made 
 her rise. 
 
 He grasped her hands in his, wringing them sharply as he spoke, 
 not even noticing her little cry of pain, or her efforts to release 
 herself, ' You know I love you you know it ! Why haven't you 
 let me tell you so ? Oh, Lois, how lovely you are to-night how 
 happy we shall be ! ' 
 
 He kissed one of her hands with a sudden savage passion that 
 frightened her. ' Oh don't/ she said, shrinking back, and pull- 
 ing her hands away from him. 
 
 He looked at her blankly a moment, but when he spoke again 
 it was gently. ' Did I frighten you ? I didn't mean to ; but you 
 Know I love you. That hasn't startled you ? Tell me you care 
 for me, Lois ? ' 
 
 ' But but ' said Lois, sorry and ashamed, ' I don't! ' 
 
 The eager boyish face, so near her own, flushed with sudden 
 anger. ' You don't ? You must. Why why I love you. It 
 cannot be that you really don't tell me ? ' 
 
 But there was no doubt in Lois' mind now. ' Indeed, Mr. 
 Forsythe,' she said, ' indeed, I am so sorry, but I don't I can't !' 
 
 A sullen look clouded his handsome face. 'I cannot believe it,' 
 ne said, at length. ' You have known that I loved you all the 
 summer ; you cannot be so cruel as to trifle with me now. You 
 will not treat me so. Oh, I love you ? ' There was almost a wail 
 in his voice, and he threw himself down in a chair and covered his 
 face with his hands. 
 
 Lois did not speak. Her lip curled a little, but it was parlly with
 
 68 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 contempt for herself and her past uncertainty. ' I am so sorry, so 
 grieved,' she began. But he scarcely heard her, or at least, did 
 not grasp the significance of her words. 
 
 He began to plead and protest. ' We will be so happy if you 
 will only care for me. Just think how different your life will be ; 
 you shall have everything in this world you want, Lois.' 
 
 She could not check his torrent of words, and when at last h$ 
 stopped he had almost convinced himself that she loved him. 
 
 But she shook her head. ' I cannot tell you how distressed I 
 am, but I do not love you.' 
 
 He was silent, as though trying to understand. 
 
 4 Won't you try and forget it ? Won't you forgive' me, and let 
 us be friends ? ' she said. 
 
 ' You really mean it ? You really mean to make me wretched ? 
 Forget it ? I wish to Heaven I could ! ' 
 
 Lois did not speak. There seemed to be nothing to say. 
 
 'You have let me think you cared,' he went on, 'and I have 
 built on it ; I have staked all my happiness on it ; I am a ruined 
 man if you don't love me. And you coolly tell me you dp not 
 care for me ? Can't you try to ? I'll make you so happy, if you 
 will only make me happy, Lois.' 
 
 ' Please please,' she protested, ' do not say anything more ; it 
 never can be indeed, it cannot.' 
 
 Dick's voice had been tender a moment before, but it was hard 
 now. 'Well,' he said, 'you have amused yourself all summer, I 
 suppose. You made me think you loved me, and everybody else 
 thought so, too.' 
 
 The hint of blame kept Lois from feeling the sting of con- 
 science. She flung her head back, and looked at him with a 
 flash of indignation in her eyes. ' Do you think it's manly to 
 blame me ? You had better blame yourself that you couldn't win 
 my love ! ' 
 
 ' Do you expect a man to choose his words when you give 
 him his death-blow ? ' he said ; and then, 4 Oh, Miss Lois, if I 
 wait, can't you learn to care for me ? I'll wait a year, if you 
 say there's any hope. Or do you love anybody else ? Is that the 
 reason ? ' 
 
 ' That has nothing to do with it,' Lois cried, hotly, ' but I 
 don't.' 
 
 'Then,' said Dick, eagerly, 'you must love me, only you don't 
 recognise it, not having been in love before. Of course it's 
 different with a girl who doesn't know what love is. Oh, say 
 you do ! ' 
 
 Lois, with quick compunction for her anger, was gentle enough 
 now. ' I cannot say so. I wish you would forget me, and forgive 
 me if you can. I'm sorry to have grieved you truly I am.' 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes, only broken by a yawu from 
 Max and the snapping of the fire.
 
 ;OHN WARD, PREACHER. 69 
 
 1 1 tell you I cannot forget,' the young man said, at last. ' You 
 have ruined my life for me ! Do you think I'll be apt to forget 
 the woman that's done that? I'll love you always, but life is 
 practically over with me. Remember that, the next time you 
 amuse yourself, Miss Howe ! ' Then, without another word, he 
 turned on his heel and left her. 
 
 Lois drew a long breath as she heard him shut the rront door 
 behind him, and then she sat down on the rug again. She 
 was too angry to cry, though her hands shook with nervousness. 
 But under all her excitement was the sting of mortification and 
 remorse. 
 
 Max, with that strange understanding which animals sometimes 
 show, suddenly turned and licked her face, and then looked at 
 her, all his love speaking in his soft brown eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Max dear,' Lois cried, flinging her arms around him, and 
 resting her cheek on his shining head, ' what a comfort you are I 
 How much nicer dogs are than men ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 DR. HOWE, with no thought of Mr. Forsythe's unceremonious call 
 at the rectory, had gone home with Mr. Denner. ' One needs a 
 walk,' he said, 'after one of Miss Deborah's dinners. Bless my 
 soul, what a housekeeper that woman is ! ' 
 
 ' Just so,' said Mr. Denner, hurrying along at his side 'just so. 
 Ah it has often occurred to me.' 
 
 And when the rector had left him at his white gateway be- 
 tween the Lombardy- poplars, Mr. Denner went into his library, 
 and after stumbling about to light his lamp, and stirring his fire 
 to have a semblance, at least, of cheer, he sat down and meditated 
 further on this subject of Miss Deborah's housekeeping. 
 
 It was a dreary room, with lofty ceilings and few and narrow 
 windows. The house was much lower than the street, and had 
 that piercing chill of dampness which belongs to houses in a hol- 
 low, and the little gentleman drew so close to the smouldering fire 
 that his feet were inside the fender. 
 
 He leaned forward, and resting his elbows on his knees propped 
 his chin on his hands, and stared at the smoke curling heavily up 
 into the cavernous chimney, where the soot hung long and 
 black It was very lonely. Willie Denner, of course, had 
 long ago gone to bed, and unless the lawyer chose to go 
 into the kitchen for company, where Mary was reading her 
 one work of fiction, ' The Accounts of the Death-beds of Emi- 
 nent Saints, he had no one to speak to. Many a time before 
 had he sat thus, pondering on the solitude of his lift,* and 
 contrasting his house with other Ashurst homes. He glanced
 
 7 JOHN WARD, PREACHER, 
 
 about his cold bare room, and thought of the parlor of the Misses 
 Woodhouse. How pleasant it was, how bright, how full of pretty 
 feminine devices ! whereas his library Mary had been a hard 
 mistress. One by one the domestic decorations of the late lady of 
 the house had disappeared. She could not ' have things round a- 
 trappin' dust,' Mary said, and her word was law. 
 
 ' If my little sister had lived,' he said, crouching nearer the fire, 
 and watching a spark catch in the soot and spread over the chim- 
 ney-back like a little marching regiment, that wheeled and man- 
 ffluvred, and then suddenly vanished, ' it would have been different. 
 She would have made things brighter. Perhaps she would have 
 painted, like Ruth ; and I have no doubt she would have been an 
 excellent housekeeper. We should have just lived quietly here, 
 she and I, and I need never have thought ' Mr. Denner flushed 
 faintly in the firelight 'of marriage.' 
 
 Mr. Denner's mind had often travelled as far as this ; he had 
 even gone to the point of saying to himself that he wished one 
 of the Misses Woodhouse would regard him with sentiments of 
 affection, and he and Willie, free from Mary, could have a 
 home of their own, instead of forlornly envying the rector and 
 Henry Dale. 
 
 But Mr. Denner had never said which Miss Woodhouse ; he had 
 always thought of them, as he would have expressed it, ' collec- 
 tively,' nor could he have told which one he most admired he 
 called it by no warmer name, even to himself. 
 
 But as he sat here alone, and remembered the pleasant evening 
 he had had, and watched his fire smoulder and die, and heard the 
 soft sigh of the rising wind, he reached a tremendous conclusion. 
 He would make up his mind. He would decide which of the 
 Misses Woodhouse possessed his deeper regard, ' Yes/ he said, 
 as he lifted first one foot and then the other over the fender, and, 
 pulling his little coat-tails forward under his arms, stood with his 
 back to the fire place ' yes, I will make up my mind ; I will make 
 it up to-morrow. I cannot go on in this uncertain way. I cannot 
 allow myself to think of Miss Ruth, and how she could paint her 
 pictures, and play my accompaniments, and then find my mind 
 on Miss Deborah's dinners. It is unpracticable ; it is almost 
 improper. To-morrow I will decide.' 
 
 To have reached this conclusion was to have accomplished a 
 great deal. 
 
 Mr. Denner went to bed much cheered ; but he dreamed of 
 walking about Miss Ruth's studio, and admiring her pictures, 
 when, to his dismay, he found Mary had followed him, and was 
 saying she ' couldn't bear things all ot a clutter.' 
 
 The next morning he ate his breakfast in solemn haste ; it was 
 to be an important day for him. He watched Mary as she walked 
 about, handing him dishes with a sternness which had always 
 awed him into eating anything she placed before him, and won
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 71 
 
 dered what she would think when she heard. He trembled a little 
 at the thought of breaking it to her ; and then he remembered 
 Miss Ruth's kind heart, and he had a vision of a pension for 
 Mary, which was checked instantly by the recollection of Miss 
 Deborah's prudent economy. 
 
 ' Ah, well,' he thought, ' I shall know to-night. Economy is a, 
 good thing M/5S Ruth herself would not deny that.' 
 
 He went out to his office, and weighed and balanced his inclina- 
 tions until dinfjer-time, and again m the afternoon, but with no 
 result. Nigh', found him hopelessly confused, with the added 
 grievance that he had not kept his word to himself. 
 
 This went on for more than a week ; *iy-and-by the uncertainty 
 began to wear greatly upon him. 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' he sighed one morning as he sat in his office, hi* 
 little gaitered feet upon the rusty top of his air-tight stove, and 
 his briarwood pipe at his lips it had gone out, leaving a bowl 
 of cheerless white ashes ' dear me ! I no sooner decide that it 
 had better be Miss Deborah for how satisfying my linen would 
 be if she had an eye on the laundry, and I know she would not 
 have bubble-and-squeak for dinner as often as Mary does than 
 Miss Ruth comes into my mind. What taste she has, and 
 what an ear ! No one notices the points in my singing as she 
 does ; and how she did turn that carpet in Gifford's room ; dear 
 me!' 
 
 He sat clutching his extinguished pipe for many minutes, when 
 suddenly a gleam came into his face, and the anxious look began 
 to disappear. 
 
 He rose, and laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece, first care- 
 fully knocking the ashes into the wood-box which stood beside 
 the stove. Then, standing with his left foot wrapped about his 
 right ankle and his face full of suppressed eagerness, he felt in 
 each pocket of his waistcoat, and produced first a knife, then a 
 tape measure, a pincushion, a bunch of keys, and last a large, 
 worn copper coin. It was smooth with age, but its almost obli- 
 terated date still showed that it had been struck the year of Mr. 
 Denner's birth. 
 
 Next, he spread his pocket-handkerchief smoothly upon the 
 floor, and then, a little stiffly, knelt upon it. He rubbed the 
 cent upon the cuff of his coat to make it shine, and held it 
 up a moment in the stream of wintry sunshine that poured 
 through the office window and lay in a golden square on the bare 
 floor. 
 
 ' Heads,' said Mr. Denner ' heads shall be Miss Deborah ; 
 tails, N iss Ruth. Oh dear me ! I wonder which ? ' 
 
 As h- said this, he pitched the coin with a tremulous hand, 
 and th a leaned forward, breathlessly watching it fall, waver 
 from si e to side, and roll slowly under the bookcase. Too 
 much ( icited to rise from his knees, he crept toward it, and,
 
 72 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 pressing his cheek against the dusty floor, he peered under the 
 unwieldy piece of furniture, to catch a glimpse of his penny and 
 learn his fate. 
 
 At such a critical moment it was not surprising that he did not 
 hear little Wille Denner come into the office. The little boy 
 stood still, surprised at his uncle's attitude. 'Have you lost 
 something-, sir ? ' he said, but without waiting for an answer, he 
 fell on his knees and looked also. 
 
 ' Oh, I see your lucky penny : I'll get it for you in a 
 minute.' 
 
 And stretching out flat upon his stomach, he wriggled almost 
 under the bookcase ; ' it was clear against the wall, and 'most 
 down in a crack.' 
 
 Mr. Denner took the penny from the child, and rubbed it ner- 
 vously between his hands. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he inquired with great hesitation, ' you did not 
 chance to observe, William, which ah which side was up? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' answered Willie, with amazement written on his little 
 freckled face; 'it hadn't fallen, you know, uncle: it was just 
 leaning against the wall. I came in to bring my Latin exercise,' 
 he went on. ' I'll run back to school now, sir.' 
 
 He was off like a flash, saying to himself in a mystified way, 
 ' I wonder if Uncle William plays heads and tails all alone in 
 the office ! ' 
 
 Mr. Denner stood holding the penny, and gazing blankly at it, 
 unconscious of the dust upon his cheek. 
 
 ' That did not decide it,' he murmured. ' I must try something 
 else.' 
 
 For Mr. Denner had some small superstitions, and it is doubt- 
 ful if he would have questioned fate again in the same way, 
 even if he had not been interrupted at that moment by the 
 rector. 
 
 Dr. Howe came into the office beating his hands to warm 
 them, his face ruddy and his breath short from a walk in the 
 cold wind. He had come to see the lawyer about selling a bit 
 qf church land ; Mr. Denner hastily slipped his penny into his 
 pocket, and felt his face grow hot as he thought in what a pos- 
 ture the rector would have found him had he come a few minutes 
 sooner. 
 
 ' Bless my soul, Denner,' Dr. Howe said, when the business 
 over, he rose to go, ' this den of yours is cold ! ' He stooped to 
 shake the logs in the small stove, hoping to start a blaze. The 
 rector would have resented any man's meddling with his fire, but 
 all Mr. Denner's friends felt a sort of responsibility for him, which 
 be accepted as a matter of course. 
 
 'Ah, yes,' replied Mr. Denner, ' it is chilly here. It had not 
 occurred to me, but it is chilly. Some people manage to keep 
 their houses very comfortable in weather like this. It is always
 
 JOHN WARD, PRfiACHfiR. ft 
 
 warm at the rectory, I notice, and at Henry Dale's, or ah the 
 Misses Woodhouse's always warm.' 
 
 The rector, taking up a great deal of room in the small office, 
 was on his knees, puffing at the fire until his face was scarlet. 
 ' Yes. I don't believe that woman of yours half looks after your 
 comfort, Denner. Can't be a good housekeeper, or she would not 
 let this stove get so choked with ashes.' 
 
 ' No,' Mr. Denner asknowledged ' ah k am inclined to agree 
 with you, doctor. Not perhaps a really good housekeeper. But 
 few women are very few. You do not find a woman like Miss 
 Deborah Woodhouse often, you know.' 
 
 ' True enough,' said Dr. Howe, pulling on his big fur gloves. 
 ' That salad of hers, the other night, was something to live for. 
 What is that ? ' plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ' ' tempt 
 the dying anchorite to eat ' I can't remember the lines, but that 
 is how I feel about Miss Deborah's salad.' The rector laughed 
 in a quick, breezy bass, beat his hands together, and was ready 
 to start. 
 
 'Yes,' said Mr. Denner, 'just so quite so. But Miss Deborah 
 is a remarkable woman, an estimable woman. One scarcely knows 
 which is the more admirable, Miss Deborah or Miss Ruth. Which 
 should you ah which do you most admire ? ' 
 
 The rector turned, with one hand on the door-knob, and looked 
 at the lawyer, with a sudden gleam in his keen eyes. ' Well, I 
 am sure I don't know. I never thought of comparing them. They 
 are both, as you say, estimable ladies.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, yes, just so, said Mr. Denner hurriedly. ' I only 
 mentioned it because it was merely in the most general way ; I 
 I did not mean to compare oh, not at all of course, I should 
 never discuss a lady's worth, as it were. I spoke in confidence ; I 
 merely wondered what your opinion might be not,' cried Mr. 
 Denner, bursting into a cold perspiration of fright to see how far 
 his embarrassment had betrayed him 'not that I really care U 
 know ! Oh, not at all ! ' 
 
 ,The rector flung his head back, and his rollicking laugh jarred 
 the very papers on Mr. Denner' s desk. 
 
 ' It is just as well you don't, for I am sure I could not say. 1 
 respect them both immensely. I have from boyhood,' he added, 
 with a droll look. 
 
 Mr. Denner coughed nervously. 
 
 ' It is not of the slightest consequence,' he explained ' not the 
 slightest. I spoke thoughtlessly ; ah unadvisedly.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course ; I understand,' cried the rector, and for- 
 bore to add a good-natured jest at Mr. Denner's embarrassment, 
 which was really painful. 
 
 But when he was well out of hearing, he could not restrain * 
 series of chuckles.
 
 } JOHN WARD, PRE4 CHER. 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' he cried, clapping his thigh ; ' Denner ! Denner 
 and Miss Deborah ! Bless my soul Denner ! ' 
 
 His mirth, however, did not last long ; some immediate annoy- 
 ances of his own forced themselves into his mind. 
 
 Before he went to the lawyer's office, he had had a talk with 
 Mrs. Dale, which had not been pleasant ; then a letter from Helen 
 had come ; and now an anxious wrinkle showed itself under his 
 fur cap, as he walked back to the rectory. 
 
 He had gone over to show Mr. Dale a somewhat highly seasoned 
 sketch in Bell' s Life; in the midst of their enjoyment of it, they 
 were interrupted by Mrs. Dale. 
 
 ' I want to speak to you about Lois, brother. Ach ! how this 
 room smells of smoke ! ' she said. 
 
 ' Why, what has the child done now ? ' said Dr. Howe. 
 
 ' You needn't say ' What has she done now ? ' as though I was 
 always finding fault,' Mrs. Dale answered, ' though I do try to 
 do my Christian duty if I see anyone making a mistake.' 
 
 ' Adele,' remarked the rector, with a frankness which was 
 entirely that of a brother, and had no bearing upon his office, 
 'you are always ready enough with that duty of fault-finding.' 
 Mr. Dale looked admiringly at his brother-in-law. 'Why don't 
 you think of the duty of praise, once in a while ? Praise is a 
 Christian grace too much neglected. Don't you think so Henry ? ' 
 
 But Mrs. Dale answered instead: ' I am ready enough to praise 
 when there is occasion for it; but you can't expect me to praise 
 Lois for her behaviour to young Forsythe. Arabella says the poor 
 youth is completely prostrated by the blow.' 
 
 1 Bah ! ' murmured Mr. Dale, under his breath ; but Dr. Howe 
 said impatiently : 
 
 ' What do you mean ? What blow ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Lois has refused him ! ' cried Mrs. Dale. ' What else ? ' 
 
 ' I didn't know she had refused him,' the rector answered 
 slowly. ' Well, the child is the best judge, after all.' 
 
 ' I am glad of it,' said Mr. Dale ' I am glad of it. He was no 
 husband for little Lois no, my dear, pray let me speak no 
 husband for Lois. I have had some conversation with him, and I 
 have played euchre with him once. He played too well for a 
 gentleman, Archibald.' 
 
 ' He beat you, did he ? ' said the rector. 
 
 ' That had nothing to do with it ! ' cried Mr. Dale. ' I should 
 have said the same thing had I been his partner.' 
 
 'Fudge!' Mrs. Dale interrupted; 'as though it made the 
 slightest difference how a man played a silly game ! Don't be 
 foolish, Henry. Lois has made a great mistake ; but I suppose 
 there is nothing to be done, unless young Forsythe should try 
 again. I hope he will, and I hope she will have more sense.' 
 
 The rector was silent. He could not deny that he was dis- 
 appointed, and as he went towards the post-office, he almost
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 75 
 
 wished he had offered a word of advice to Lois. ' Still, a girl 
 needs her mother for that sort of thing ; and, after all, perhaps it 
 is best. For really, I should be very dull at the rectory without 
 her.' Thus he comforted himself for what was only a disappoint- 
 ment tp his vanity, and was quite cheerful when he opened Helen's 
 letter. 
 
 The post-office was in that part of the drug-store where the 
 herbs were kept, and the letters always had a faint smell <t-' 
 pennyroyal or wormwood about them. The rector read his letter 
 leaning against the counter, and crumbling some bay-leaves 
 between his fingers ; and though he was interrupted half a dozen 
 times by people coming for their mail, and stopping to gossip 
 about the weather or the church, he gained a very uncomfortable 
 sense of its contents. 
 
 ' More of this talk about belief,' he grumbled, as he folded the 
 last sheet, covered with clear heavy writing, and struck it im- 
 patiently across his hand before he thrust it down into his pocket. 
 ' What in the world is John Ward thinking of to let her bother 
 her head with such questions ? ' 
 
 ' I am surprised,' Helen wrote, to see how narrowness and 
 intolerance seem to belong to intense belief. Some of these elders 
 in John's church, especially a man called Dean (the father of my 
 Alfaretta), believe in their horrible doctrines with all their hearts, 
 and their absolute conviction makes them blind to my possibility 
 of good in any creed which does not agree with theirs. Apparently, 
 they think they have reached the ultimate truth, and never even 
 look for new light. That is the strangest thing to me. Now, 
 for my part, I would not sign a creed to day which I had written 
 myself, because one lives progressively in religion as in every- 
 thing else. But, after all, as I said to Gifford the other day, the 
 form of belief is of so little consequence. The main thing is to 
 have the realization of God in one's own soul ; it would be enough 
 to have that, I should think. But to some of us God is only 
 another name for the power of good or, one might as well say 
 force, and that is blind and impersonal ; there is nothing com- 
 forting or tender in the thought of force. How do you suppose 
 the conviction of the personality of God is reached ? ' 
 
 'All nonsense,' said the rector as he went home, striking out 
 with his cane at the stalks of golden-rod standing stiff with frost 
 at the roadside. ' I shall tell Gifford he ought to know better 
 than to have these discussions with her. Women don't under- 
 stand such things ; they go off at half-cock, and think themselves 
 sceptics. All nonsense ! ' 
 
 But the rector need not have felt any immediate anxiety about 
 his niece. As yet such questions were only a sort of intellectual 
 exercise ; the time had not come when they should be intensely 
 real, and she should seek for an answer with all the force of her 
 life, and know the anguish of despair which comes when a soul
 
 76 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 feels itself adrift upon a sea of unbelief. They were not of 
 enough importance to talk of to John, even if she had not known 
 they would trouble him ; she and Gifford had merely spoken of 
 them as speculations of general interest ; yet all the while they 
 were shaping and moulding her mind for the future. 
 
 But the letter brought a cloud on Dr. Howe's face ; he wanted 
 to forget it, he was impatient to shake off the unpleasant remem- 
 brances it roused, and so engaged was he in this that by the time 
 he had reached the rectory Mr. Denner and his perplexities were 
 quite out of his mind, though the lawyer's face was still tingling 
 with mortification. 
 
 Mr. Denner couid not keep his thoughts from his puzzle. 
 Supper-time came, and he was still struggling to reach a con- 
 clusion. He carved the cold mutton with more than usual 
 precision, and ate it in anxious abstraction. The room was 
 chilly ; draughts from the narrow windows made the lamp flare, 
 and the wind from under the door raised the carpet in swells 
 along the floor. He did not notice Willie, who kept his hands in 
 his pockets for warmth, and also because he had nothing for them 
 to do. 
 
 When Mr. Denner rang for Mary, the boy said with anxious 
 politeness, ' Was was the mutton good, sir ? ' 
 
 Willie had been well brought up he was not to speak unless 
 spoken to ; but under the press of hunger nature rebelled, for his 
 uncle, in his absorption, had forgotten to help him to anything. 
 
 Mr. Denner carved some meat for the child, and then sat and 
 watched him with such gloomy eyes that Willie was glad to 
 finish and put his chair back for prayers. 
 
 The table was cleared, and then Mary put the Bible in front 
 of Mr. Denner, and Jay's 'Morning and Evening Exercises,' 
 opened at the proper day. Two candles in massive candlesticks 
 on either side of his book gave an unsteady light, and when they 
 flickered threw strange shadows on the ceiling. The frames 
 which held the paintings of Mr. Denner' s grandparents loomed 
 up dark and forbidding, and Mary, who always sat with her arms 
 rolled in her apron, and her head bowed upon her ample breast, 
 made a grotesque shadow, which danced and bobbed about on 
 the door of the pantry. Mary generally slept through prayers, 
 while for Willie it was a time of nervous dread The room was 
 so dark, and his uncle's voice so strange and rolling, the little 
 fellow feared to kneel down and turn his back to the long table 
 with its ghastly white cloth ; his imagination pictured fearful 
 things stealing upon him from the mysterious space beneath it, 
 and his heart beat so he could scarcely hear the words of prayer. 
 But Mr. Denner enjoyed it. Not, however, because prayer was 
 the expression of his soul ; family prayer was merely a dignified 
 and proper observance. Mr. Denner would not have omitted it 
 any more than he would have neglected Sunday morning
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 77 
 
 iervice ; but he was scarcely more aware of the words than Mary 
 or Willie were. It was the reading which gave Mr. Denser so 
 much pleasure. 
 
 Perhaps the cases he had never pleaded, the dramatic force 
 which he secretly longed to exert, expended themselves in the 
 sonorous chapters of Isaiah, or in the wail of Jerusalem. Indeed, 
 the thought had more than once occurred to Mr. Denner that the 
 r ector, who read the services with cheerful haste, might improve in 
 his own delivery, could he listen to the eloquence under which 
 Mary and little Willie sat every evening. 
 
 To-night it was the victory of Jephtha. The reading proceeded 
 as usual : Mary slumbered tranquilly at her end of the room ; 
 Willie counted the number of panes of glass in the window 
 opposite him, and wondered what he should do if suddenly a 
 white face should peer at him out of the darkness. Mr. Denner, 
 had reached the vow that whatsoever should first meet Jephtha 
 when, with his hand extended, his eyebrows drawn together, and 
 his whole attitude expressing his anxiety and fear of the con- 
 queror, he stopped abruptly. Here was an inspiration ! 
 
 Mary woke with a start. ' Is it a stroke ? ' she exclaimed. 
 But Willie, with one frightened look at the window and the long 
 table, slipped from his chair to kneel, thinking the reading was 
 over. The sound of his little copper-toed boots upon the floor 
 aroused Mr. Denner ; he frowned portentiously. ' So Jephtha 
 passed over imto the children of Ammon,' he read on, 'to fight 
 against them, and the Lord delivered them into his hands* 
 
 When prayers were ended, however, and he was sitting in his 
 library alone, he said with subdued glee, ' That is the way to do 
 it the one I see first ! ' And Mr. Denner went to bed with a 
 quiet mind, and the peace which follows the decision of a 
 momentous question. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE cold that winter was more persistent and severe in the 
 mountains than down in Ashurst. 
 
 At Lockhaven the river had been frozen over for a month, even 
 above the bridge and the mills, where the current was swiftest. 
 Long lines of sawdust which had been coiling and whirling in the 
 eddies, or stretching across the black seething water, were caught 
 in the ice, or blown about with the powdered snow over its 
 surface. 
 
 Rafts could not come down the river, so the mills had no work 
 to do, for the logs on hand at the beginning of the cold snap had 
 been sawn into long rough planks, and piled in the lumber-yard, 
 ready to be rafted as soon as the thaw came. The cold, still six
 
 78 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 was sweet with the fragrance of fresh pine-boards, and the ground 
 about the mills was covered with sawdust, so that footsteps fell as 
 silently as though on velvet, instead of ringing sharp against the 
 frozen ground. 
 
 John Ward, walking wearily home from a long visit to a sick 
 woman, came, as he crossed the lumber-yard, upon a group of 
 raftsmen ; they had not heard his approach, and wre talking 
 loudly, with frequent bursts of drunken laughter. 
 
 It was towards evening; the sky had been threatening all 
 day, and when the clouds lifted suddenly in the west, blown 
 aside like tumultuous folds of a gray curtain, the red sun sent 
 a flood of colour across the wintry landscape : the bare branches 
 of the trees were touched with light, and the pools of black 
 clear ice gleamed with frosty fire. John's face had caught the 
 radiance. 
 
 He had come up to the men so silently that he had been stand- 
 ing beside them a moment before they noticed him, and then Tom 
 Davis, with a start of drunken fear, tried to hide the bottle which 
 he held. 
 
 ' Damn you, mate, you're spillin' it ! ' cried one of the others, 
 making an unsteady lunge forward to seize the bottle. 
 
 ' Let up, let up,' said Tom, thickly. ' Don't ye see the 
 preacher f ' Though Davis was not one of his flock, he had the 
 same reverence for the preacher which his congregation felt. All 
 Lockhaven loved and feared John Ward. 
 
 John had not spoken, even though a little boy, building block- 
 houses on a heap of sawdust near the man, had come up and 
 taken his hand with a look of confident affection. 
 
 The man who had saved the whisky stumbled to his feet, and 
 leaning against a pile of lumber, stood open-mouthed, waiting 
 for the preacher's rebuke; but Davis hung his head, and began 
 to fumble for a pipe in his sagging coat pocket; with clumsy 
 fingers, scattering the tobacco from his little bag, he tried to 
 fill it. 
 
 ' Tom,' the preacher said at last, ' I want you to come home 
 with me, now. And, Jim, you will give me that bottle ? ' 
 
 ' I can't go home, preacher. I've got to buy some things for 
 the brats. She said I was to buy some things for the brats.' 
 
 'Have you bought them?' John asked. Tom gave a silly 
 laugh. 
 
 'Not yet, preacher ; not yet.' 
 
 'Listen, men,' John said, with sudden sternness. 'You have 
 let this child see you on the road to hell. If he can remembei 
 this sight, it will save his soul.' 
 
 Tom Davis shrank as the preacher said 'hell.' He gave a 
 maudlin cry, and almost whimpered, ' No, sir, no, preacher, I 
 *m a-goin' to reform.' John had known what note to touch in 
 his debased nature. Not love, nor hope, nor shame, would move
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. ?9 
 
 Tom Davis, but fear stung him into a semblance of sobriety. 
 ' I'll come along wi' you,' he went on, swaying backwards and 
 forwards, and steadying himself with a hand on the lumber 
 against which he had been leaning. 'This is the last time, 
 preacher. You won't see me this way no more.' 
 
 Here he hiccoughed, and then laughed, but remembering him- 
 self instantly, drew his forehead into a scowl. 
 
 The other men slunk away, for the minister had taken the 
 bottle, and Tom Davis was following him through the narrow 
 passages between the great piles of boards, towards his house. 
 
 The boy had gone back to his block-house ; the pile of saw- 
 dust in the sheltered corner was more comfortable and not more 
 cheerless than his own home. 
 
 John left Davis at his door. The man looked cowed, but there 
 was no shame in his face, and no sense of sin. It was unpleasant 
 to be caught by the preacher, and he was frightened by that 
 awful word, which it was the constant effort of his numb, helpless 
 brain to forget. 
 
 John went on alone. He walked slowly, with his eyes fixed 
 absently on the ground, thinking. ' Poor Davis,' he said, ' poor 
 fellow ! ' The man's future seemed quite hopeless to the preacher, 
 and, thinking of it, he recalled Mrs. Davis' regret that he had 
 not spoken of hell in his sermon. 
 
 John sighed. His grief at Helen's unbelief was growing in his 
 silence ; yet he realized the inconsistency of his love in hiding his 
 sorrow from her. 
 
 ' It is robbing her, not to let her share it,' he thought ; ' but I 
 dare not speak to her yet.' 
 
 More than once during the winter he had tried to show her 
 the truth and the beauty of various doctrines, generally that of 
 reprobation, but she had always evaded discussion ; sometimes 
 lightly, for it seemed such a small matter to her, but always 
 firmly. 
 
 The preacher loitered, stopping to look at the river and the 
 gaunt line of mills against the sky. He left the path, and went 
 down to the edge of the white ice, so full of air bubbles, it seemed 
 like solid snow, and listened to the gurgle of the hurrying water 
 underneath. 
 
 A shed was built close to the stream, to shelter a hand fire- 
 engine. It had not been used for so long that the row of buckets 
 beside it, which were for dipping up water to fill it, were warped 
 and cracked, their iron bands rusty, and out of one or two the 
 bottom had fallen. The door of the shed creaked on its one 
 hinge, and John looked up, surprised to see how dark it had 
 grown ; then he turned towards home. 
 
 'Yes,' he said to himself, 'I must show her her danger. It 
 will grieve her to force an argument upon her, and I don't think 
 she has had one unhappy hour since we were married ; but even 
 
 f
 
 80 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 if it were net for her own soul's sake, I must not let my people 
 starve for the bread of life, to spare her. I must not be silent 
 concerning the danger of the sinner. But it will trouble her it 
 will trouble her.' 
 
 John had dallied with temptation so long, that it had grown 
 bold, and did not always hide under the plea of wisdom, but 
 openly dared him to inflict the pain of grieving his wife upon 
 himself. He still delayed, yet. there were moments when he 
 knew himself a coward, and had to summon every argument of 
 the past to his [defence. But before he reached the parsonage 
 door he had lapsed into such tender thoughts of Helen that he 
 said again, ' Not quite yet ; it seems to annoy her so to argue 
 upon such things. I must leave it until I wm her to truth by 
 the force of its own constraining beauty. Little by little I will 
 draw her attention to it. And I must gradually make my sermons 
 more emphatic.' 
 
 Helen met him at the door, and drew him into the house. 
 ' You are so late,' she said, pressing his chill fingers against her 
 warm cheek, and chafing them between her hands. 
 
 He stopped to kiss her before he took his coat off, smiling at 
 her happiness and his own. 
 
 ' How raw and cold it is ! ' she said. ' Come into the study ; I 
 have a beautiful fire for you. Is it going to snow, do you think ? 
 How is your sick woman ? ' 
 
 ' Better,' he answered, as he followed her into the room. 
 ' Oh, Helen, it is good to be at home. I have not seen you since 
 noon.' 
 
 She laughed, and then insisted that he should sit still, and let 
 her bring his supper into the study, and eat it there by the fire. 
 He watched her with a delicious luxury of rest and content ; for 
 he was very tired and very happy. 
 
 She put a little table beside him, covered with a large napkin ; 
 and then she brought a loaf of brown bread and some honey, 
 with a mould of yellow butter, and last a little covered dish of 
 chicken. 
 
 ' I broiled that for you myself,' she explained proudly ; ' and 
 I did not mean to give you coffee, but what do you think ? the 
 whole canister of tea has disappeared. When Alfaretta went to 
 get it for my supper, it was gone.' 
 
 ' Oh,' John said, smiling, while Helen began to pour some 
 cream into his coffee from a flat little silver jug, ' I forgot to 
 mention it ; the fact is, I took that tea with me this afternoon 
 I thought probably they had none in the house ; and I wish 
 you could have seen the woman's joy at the sight of it. I 
 cooked some for her she told me how,' he said deprecatingly, 
 for Helen laughed; 'and she said it was very good, too,' he 
 added. 
 
 But Helen refused to believe that possible. ' It was politeness,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 81 
 
 John/ she cried gaily, 'and because, I suppose, you presented her 
 with my lacquered canister.' 
 
 ' I did leave it,' John admitted ; ' I never thought of it.' But 
 he forgot even to ak forgiveness, as she bent towards him 
 testing her hand on kit shoulder while she put his cup beside 
 him. 
 
 ' The fire has flashed your cheek/ he said, touching it softly, 
 the lover's awe shining in his eyes ; with John it had never been 
 lost in the assured possession of the husband. Helen looked at 
 him, smiling a little, but she did not speak. Silence with her told 
 sometimes more than words. 
 
 1 It has been such a long afternoon,' he said. ' I was glad to 
 hurry home ; perhaps that is the reason I forgot the canister.' 
 
 1 Shall I send you back for it ? ' She put her lips for a moment 
 against his hand, and then, glancing out at the night for sheer 
 joy at the warmth and light within, she added, ' Why, what is that 
 glow, John ? It looks like fire.' 
 
 He turned, and then pushed back his chair and went to the 
 window. 
 
 ' It does look like fire,' he said anxiously. 
 
 Helen had followed him, and they watched together a strange 
 light, rising and falling, and then brightening again all along the 
 sky. Even as they looked the upper heavens began to pulsate 
 and throb with faint crimson. 
 
 ' It is fire I ' John exclaimed. ' Let me get my coat, 
 must go/ 
 
 ' Oh, not now,' Helen said. ' You must finish your supper 
 and you are so tired, John ! ' 
 
 But he was already at the door and reaching for his hat. 
 
 ' It must be the lumber-yards, and the river is frozen.' 
 
 ' Wait !' Helen cried. ' Let me get my cloak. I will go if you 
 do,' and a moment later the parsonage door banged behind them, 
 and they hurried out into the darkness. 
 
 The street which led to the lumber-yards had been silent and 
 deserted, when John passed through it half an hour before, but 
 now all Lockhaven seemed to throng it. 
 
 The preacher and his wife could hear the snapping and crack- 
 ling of flames even before they turned the last corner and saw the 
 blaze, which, sweeping up into the cold air, began to mutter 
 before it broke with a savage roar. They caught sight of Gifford's 
 broad shoulders in the crowd, which stood, fascinated and ap- 
 palled, watching the destruction of what to most of them meant 
 work and wages. 
 
 ' Oh, Giff,' Heltn said when they reached his side, ' why don't 
 they do something ? Have they tried to put it out ? ' 
 
 ' It's no use to try now,' Gifford answered. 'They dian't dis- 
 cover it in time. It has made such headway, that the only thing 
 to do is to see that it burns out, without setting fire to any of the
 
 fa JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 houses. Fortunately the wind is towards the river.' 
 
 John shook his head; he was too breathless to speak for a 
 moment ; then he said, ' Something must be done.' 
 
 'There is no use, Mr. Ward,' Gifford explained. But John 
 scarcely heard him ; the people's comfort, their morality almost, 
 for poverty meant deeper sin to most of them was burning up 
 in those great square piles of planks. 
 
 ' Men,' he shouted, ' men, the engine ! To the river. Run ! 
 run!' 
 
 'Nothing can be done,' Gifford said, as the crowd broke, fol- 
 lowing the preacher, who was far ahead of all ; but he too started 
 as though to join them, and then checked himself, and went back 
 into the deserted street, walking up and down, a self-constituted 
 patrol. 
 
 Almost every man had gone to the river. Tom Davis, however, 
 with Molly beside him, stood lolling against a tree, sobered, 
 indeed, by the shock of the fire, but scarcely steady enough on his 
 legs to run. Another, who was a cripple, swaying to and fro on 
 his crutches with excitement, broke into a storm of oaths because 
 his companion did not do the work for which he was himself too 
 helpless. But Tom only gazed with bleared eyes at the fire, and 
 tried to stand up straight. 
 
 The little crowd of women about Helen had been silenced at 
 first by the tumult and glare, but now broke into wild lamentations, 
 and entreaties that Heaven would send the engine soon, wringing 
 their hands, and sobbing, and frightening the children that clung 
 about their skirts even more than the fire itself. 
 
 How did it start ? ' Helen said, turning to the woman next to 
 her, who, shivering with excitement, held a baby in her arms, who 
 gazed at the fire with wide, tranquil eyes, as though it had been 
 got up for his entertainment. 
 
 'They say,' answered the woman, tossing her head in the direc- 
 tion of Tom Davis ' they say him and some other fellows was 
 in 'mong the lumber this afternoon, drinkin', you know, and 
 smokin' . Most likely a match dropped, or ashes from their pipes. 
 Drunken men ain't reasonable about them things,' she added, 
 with the simplicity of experience. ' They don't stop to think 
 they're burning up money, and whiskey too; for Dobbs don't 
 tiust 'em, now the mill is shut down.' 
 
 'Yes,' said another woman who stood by, 'them men! what 
 do they care ? You,' she shouted, shaking her fist at Tom 
 ' you'll starve us all, will ye ? an' your poor wife, just up from 
 her sick bed ! I don't know as she'll be much worse off, though, 
 when he is out of work,' she added, turning to Helen ' for every 
 blessed copper he has goes to the saloon.' 
 
 ' Yer man's as bad as me,' Tom protested, stung by her taunts 
 and the jeers of the cripple. 
 
 'An' who is it as leads him on ? ' screamed the woman. 'And
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 85 
 
 if he does take a drop sometimes, it wasn't him as was in the 
 lumber-yard this afternoon, a-settin' fire to the boards, an' burn- 
 in' up the food and comfort o' the whole town ' ' 
 
 Tom hurled a torrent of profanity at the woman and the cripple 
 collectively, and then stumbled towards the road with the crowd, 
 for the fire was approaching the side of the yard where they stood, 
 and beating them back into the village street. 
 
 The air was filled with the appalling roar and screav of tLe 
 flames ; showers of sparks were flung up against the black sky, as 
 with a tremendous crash the inside of one of the piles would col- 
 lapse ; and still the engine did not come. 
 
 ' Hurry, hurry ! ' the women shouted with hoarse, terrified 
 voices, and some ran to the edge of the bluff and looked down at 
 the river. 
 
 The men were hurrying; but as they drew the long-unused 
 engine from its shed, an axle broke, and with stiff fingers they 
 tried to mend it. Some had had to run for axes to break the ice, 
 and then they pushed and jostled each other about the square 
 hole they had cut, to dip up the dark, swift water underneath ; 
 and all the while the sky behind them grew a fiercer red, and the 
 very ice glared with the leaping flames. At last, pulling and 
 pushing, they brought the little engine up the slope, and then 
 with a great shout dragged it into the outskirts of the yard. They 
 pumped furiously, and a small jet of water was played upon the 
 nearest pile of boards. A hissing cloud of steam almost hid the 
 volunteer firemen, but the flames leaped and tossed against the 
 sky, and the sparks were sucked up into the cold air, and whirled 
 in sheets across the river. 
 
 John Ward came breathlessly towards his wife. ' Are you all 
 right, Helen ? You seemed too near ; come back a little further.' 
 Then, suddenly seeing the woman beside her with the baby in her 
 arms, he stopped, and looked about. ' Where's your boy, Mrs. 
 Nevins ? ' he said. The woman glanced around her. 
 
 'I I'm not just sure, preacher.' 
 
 ' Have you seen him since six o'clock ? ' 
 
 'No I I ain't,' the woman answered. There was something 
 in John's face which terrified her, though the mere absence of her 
 son gave her no uneasiness. 
 
 ' Go back, Helen,' he said quickly 'go as far as that second 
 house, or I shall not feel sure you are safe. Mrs. Nevins, we 
 must look for Charley. I am afraid he was in the lumber-yard 
 this afternoon ' 
 
 John did not wait to hear the woman's shriek ; he turned and 
 ran from group to group, looking for the boy whom he had seen 
 building block-houses on a pile of sawdust ; but the mother, push- 
 ing her Laby into a neighbour's arms, ran up and down like a 
 mad woman.
 
 | 4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' My boy I ' she cried ; ' Charley ! Charley ! He's in th* fire 
 
 my boy's in the fire ! ' 
 
 Tom Davis had heard the hurried words of the preacher, and 
 the mother's cries roused all the manhood drink had left. He 
 hesitated a moment, and then, pushing Molly towards the cripple, 
 whose taunts still rung in his ears, ' Take care of the brat ! ' he 
 said, and pulling off his coat, which he wrapped about his head 
 to guard himself from the falling boards, he stooped almost dou- 
 ble, and with his left arm bent before his face, and his right 
 extended to feel his way, he ran towards the fire, and disappeared 
 in the blinding smoke. 
 
 Even Mrs. Nevins was silent for a moment of shuddering sus- 
 pense ; and when she tossed her arms into the air again, and 
 shrieked, it was because John Ward came towards her with 
 Charley trotting at his side. 
 
 'You should have looked after the child/ the preacher said 
 sternly. ' I found him on the other side of the yard, near the 
 fire-engine.' 
 
 Mrs. Nevins caught the boy in her arms in a paroxysm of rage 
 and joy ; and then she thought of Tom. 
 
 'Oh, preacher,' she cried, preacher 1 he's run in after him, 
 Tom Davis has ! ' 
 
 ' There ? ' John said, pointing to the fire. ' God help him ! ' 
 
 There was no human help possible. Tom had run down between 
 two long piles of boards, not yet in flames, but already a sheet of 
 fire swept madly across the open space. They could only look at 
 each other, dumb with their own helplessness, and wait. How 
 long this horror of expectation lasted no one knew, but at last, as 
 if from the very mouth of hell, Tom Davis came, staggering and 
 swaying his singed coat rolled about his head, and his hands 
 stretched blindly out. 
 
 John Ward ran towards him, and even the cripple pressed for- 
 ward to take his hand. But with unseeing eyes he stood a 
 moment, and then fell forward on his face. They lifted him, and 
 carried him back into the street, away from the glare of light ; 
 there were plenty of kindly hands and pitying words, for most 
 of the crowd had gathered about him ; even the men who had 
 brought the engine followed, for their efforts to subdue the fire 
 were perfectly futile. 
 
 They laid him down on the stiff frozen grass by the road-side ; 
 but Molly clung so tightly about his neck that the preacher could 
 scarcely move her to put his hand upon Tom's heart ; Helen 
 lifted the little girl, and laid her own wet cheek against the 
 child's. 
 
 The group of men and women stood awed and silent about the 
 prostrate form, waiting for John to raise his head from the broad, 
 still breast ; when he lifted it they knew all was over. 
 
 Whether the shock of the beat and tumult, corning upon the
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 85 
 
 stupor of intoxication, and paralyzing the action of the heart, or 
 whether a blow from a burning- plank, had killed him, no one 
 could know. The poor sodden, bloated body was suddenly 
 invested with the dignity of death ; and how death had come was 
 for a while a secondary thought. 
 
 ' He is dead,' John said. ' He has died like a brave man ! ' 
 
 He stood looking down at the body for some moments, and no 
 one spoke. Then, as there was a stir among those who stood near, 
 and someone whispered that Mrs. Davis must be told, the preacher 
 looked away from the dead man's face. 
 
 4 Poor soul,' he said, ' poor soul ! ' 
 
 A few light flakes of snow were beginning to fall in that still, 
 uncertain way which heralds a storm ; some touched the dead face 
 with pure white fingers, as though they would hide the degraded 
 body from any eyes less kind than God's. 
 
 Helen, who had gone further back into the street that Molly 
 might not look again at her father, came to John's side. 
 
 ' I will take Molly home with me,' she said ; tell Mrs. Davis 
 where she is.' 
 
 ' Gifford is here to go with you ? ' John asked, with that quick 
 tenderness which never left him. Then he turned away to help in 
 carrying the dead man to his home. 
 
 The silent procession, with its awful burden, went back through 
 the streets, lighted by the pulsating glare of the fire. John walked 
 beside the still figure with his head bent upon his breast. That 
 first impulse of human exaltation in a brave deed was gone ; there 
 was a horror of pity instead. Just before they reached Tom's 
 house, he stopped, by a gesture, the men who bore the body. 
 
 ' Oh, my people,' he said, his hands stretched out to them, the 
 snow falling softly on his bare head, ' God speaks to you from the 
 lips of this dead man. Listen to His words : ' The day or the 
 hour knoweth no man ; ' and are you ready to face the judgment- 
 seat of Christ ? Oh, be not deceived, be not deceived ! ' What- 
 soever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' ' 
 
 It was long past midnight when the knot of men about Tom 
 Davis' door dispersed ; the excitement of the fire faded before 
 that frank interest in death, which such people have no hesitation 
 in expressing. Society veils it with decent reserve, and calls it 
 morbid and vulgar, yet it is ineradicably human, and circum- 
 stances alone decide whether it shall be confessed. 
 
 But when the preacher came out of the house, all was quiet and 
 deserted. The snow, driving in white sheets down the mountains, 
 was tinged with a faint glow, where, in a blinding mist, it whirled 
 across the yards ; it had come too late to save the lumber, but it 
 had checked and deadened the flames, so that the few unburned 
 planks only smouldered slowly into ashes. 
 
 John had told Mrs. Davis of her loss with that wonderful gen- 
 tleness which characterized all his dealings with sorrow. H
 
 86 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 found her trying to quiet her baby, when he went in, leaving out- 
 side in the softly falling snow that ghastly burden which the men 
 bore. She looked up with startled, questioning eyes as he entered. 
 He took the child out of her arms, and hushed it upon his breast ; 
 and then, with one of her shaking hands held firm in hie, he told 
 her. 
 
 Afterwards, it seemed to her that the sorrow in his face had 
 told her, and that she knew his message before he spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Davis had not broken into loud weeping when she heard 
 her husband's fate, and she was very calm, when John saw her 
 again, after all had been done which was needful for the dead; 
 only moving nervously about, trying to put the room into an un- 
 usual order. John could not bear to leave her ; knowing what 
 love is, his sympathy for her grief was almost grief itself, yet he 
 had said all that he could say to comfort her, all that he could of 
 Tom's bravery in rushing into the fire, and it seemed useless to 
 stay. But as he rose to go, putting the child, who had fallen 
 asleep in his arms, down on the bed, Mrs. Davis stopped him. 
 
 She stood straightening the sheet which covered Tom's face, 
 creasing its folds between her fingers, and pulling it a little on 
 this side or that. 
 
 ' Mr. Ward,' she said, ' he was drunk, Tom was.' 
 
 1 1 know it,' he answered gently. 
 
 ' He went out with some money this forenoon,' she went on ; 
 ' he was to buy some things for the young ones. He didn't 
 mean to drink; he didn't mean to go near the saloon. I know 
 it. Mrs. Shea, she came in a bit after he went, and she said she 
 seen him coming out of the saloon, drunk. But he didn't mean 
 it. Then you brought him home. But, being started, preacher, 
 he could not help it, and he'd been around to Dobb's again, 'fore 
 he seen the fire.' 
 
 'Yes,' John said. 
 
 Still smoothing the straight whiteness of the sheet, she said, 
 with a tremor in her voice : 
 
 ' If he didn't want to, preacher if he didn't mean to perhaps 
 it wasn't a sin ? and him dying in it ! ' 
 
 Her voice broke, and she knelt down and hid her face in the 
 dead man's breast. She did not think of him now as the man 
 that beat her when he was drunk, and starved the children ; he 
 was the young lover again. The dull, brutal man and the fretful, 
 faded woman had been boy and girl once, and had had their little 
 romance, like happier husbands and wives. 
 
 John did not answer her, but a mist of tears gathered in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Davis raised her head and looked at him. ' Tell me, you 
 don't think it will be counted a sin to him, do you ? You don't 
 think he died in sin ? ' she asked almost fiercely. 
 
 ' I wish I could say I did not,' he answered.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 8/ 
 
 She threw her hands up over her head with a shrill cry. 
 
 'You don't think he's lost? Say you don't, preacher say 
 you don't ! ' 
 
 John took her hands in his. ' Try and think,' he said gently, 
 ' how brave Tom was, how nobly he faced death to save Charley. 
 Leave the judgments of God to God; they are not for us to think 
 of.' 
 
 But she would not be put off in that way. Too weak to kneel, 
 she had sunk upon the floor, leaning still against the bed, with one 
 thin, gaunt arm thrown across her husband's body. 
 
 ' You think/ she demanded, 'that my Tom's lost because he 
 was drunk to-night f ' 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' I do not think that, Mrs. Davis.' 
 
 ' Is he saved t ' she cried, her voice shrill with eagerness. 
 
 John was silent. She clutched his arm with her thin fingers, 
 and shook it in her excitement ; her pinched, terrified face was 
 close to his. 
 
 ' He wasn't never converted I know that but would the 
 Lord have cut him off, sudden like, in his sin, if He wasn't goin' 
 to save him ? ' 
 
 ' We can only trust His wisdom and His goodness.' 
 
 ' But you think he was cut off in his sins you think my Tom's 
 lost ! ' 
 
 The preacher did not speak, but the passionate pity in his eyes 
 told her. She put her hands up to her throat as though she were 
 suffocating, and her face grew ghastly. 
 
 ' Remember, God knows what is best for His children,' John 
 said. ' He sends the grief of Tom's death to you in His infinite 
 wisdom. He loves you He knows best.' 
 
 1 Do you mean,' asked the woman slowly, ' that it was best for 
 Tom he should die ? ' 
 
 ' I mean this sorrow may be best for you,' he answered tenderly. 
 ' God knows what you need. He sends sorrow to draw our souls 
 nearer to Him.' 
 
 ' Oh,' she exclaimed, her voice broken and hoarse, ' I don't 
 want no good fer me, if Tom has to die fer it. ' An" why should 
 He love me instead o' Tom ? Oh, I don't want His love, as 
 wouldn't give Tom another chance ! He might have been con- 
 verted this next revival, fer you would ha* preached hell, I know 
 you would, then. No, I don't want no good as comes that way. 
 Oh, preacher, you ain't going to say you think my Tom's burning 
 in hell this night, and me living to be made better by it ? Oh, no, 
 no, no ! ' She crawled to his feet, and clasped his knees with her 
 shaking arms. ' Say he isn't say he isn't ! ' 
 
 But the presence of that dead man asserted the hopelessness of 
 John's creed; no human pity could dim his faith, and he had no 
 words of comfort for the distracted woman who clung to him. He 
 could only lift her and try to soothe her, but sh.e did not seem tp
 
 88 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 hear him until he put the baby in her arms ; at the touch of its 
 little soft face against her drawn cheek, she trembled violently, 
 and then came the merciful relief of tears. She did not ask the 
 preacher again to say that her husband was not lost ; she had no 
 hope that he would tell her anything but what she already knew. 
 'The soul that sinneth, it shall die.' She tried, poor thing, to 
 find some comfort in the words he spoke of God's love for her ; 
 listening with a pathetic silence which wrung his heart. 
 
 When John left her, beating his way home through the blinding 
 snow, his face was as haggard as her own. He could not escape 
 from the ultimate conclusion of his creed ' He that believeth not 
 shall be damned.' Yet he loved and trusted completely. His 
 confidence in God's justice could not be shaken ; but it was with 
 almost a groan that he said, ' O my God, my God, justice 
 and judgment are the habitation of Thy throne ; mercy and 
 truth shall go before Thy face ! But justice with mercy justice 
 first 1 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE snow fell all that night, but the day broke exquisitely clear 
 upon a white and shining world. The sky was blue and sparkling, 
 and the keen north wind had carved the drifts into wonderful over- 
 hanging curves, like the curling crests of breakers. 
 
 John Ward went early to Mrs. Davis. The sharp agony of 
 the night before was over; there was even a momentary com- 
 placency at the importance of death, for the room was full of 
 neighbours, whose noisy sympathy drove her despair of her hus- 
 band's fate from her mind. But when she saw John, her terror 
 came back, and she began to be silent, and not so ready to tell 
 the story of the dead man's bravery to each one that entered. But 
 with the people who were not immediately affected, the excite- 
 ment of Tom's death could scarcely last. 
 
 By the afternoon his widow was for the most part alone. Helen 
 had thought it would be so, and waited until then to go and see 
 her. 3ut first she went into her kitchen, and she and Alfaretta 
 packed a little basket with cold meat, and sweet, snowy bread, 
 and some jam, for the children. 
 
 ' They do say," Alfaretta said, as she tucked the corners of the 
 napkin under the wicker cover' they do say Tom Davis went 
 straight to the bad place last night. He wasn't never converted 
 you know ; but somehow, seein' as he really thought he was going 
 to save that Charley, seein' as he died for him, as you might say, 
 it don't seem like as if it was just' Alfaretta lowered her voice a 
 little' as if it was just fair. Do you think he went there, Mrs, 
 Ward ? '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. Jg 
 
 ' I know he did not,' Helen answered promptly. ' I don't think 
 about hell quite as you do, Alfaretta. I cannot believe God 
 punishes people eternally ; for if He is good, He could not be so 
 cruel. Why, no human being would be so cruel as that, and do 
 you think we ought to believe that men are better and kinder 
 than God ! ' 
 
 Alfaretta looked confused. ' Well, but justice ? ' 
 
 ' Justice ! ' Helen said. ' Would it be just if I put a little child 
 where it was certain to fall down, and then punish it for falling ? 
 The child did not ask to be put there. So God puts us here, 
 where we must sin ; would it be just to punish us eternally for His 
 own work ? ' 
 
 Alfaretta shook her head, and sighed. 'Well, I don't know 
 but yer right, though the preacher don't say so.' 
 
 Helen did not speak for a moment, and then said quietly, 
 ' Perhaps not not yet ; but he will say &o some day. He is &o 
 good himself, you know, Alfaretta, he cannot bear to think every- 
 one else does not love and serve God, too ; and it seems to him as 
 though they ought to be punished if they don't.' 
 
 This was a very lame explanation, but it closed the discussion, 
 and she hurried away from the honest, searching eyes of her 
 servant, which she felt must see through the flimsy excuse. 
 Her eyes burned with sudden tears that blurred the white land- 
 scape ; it hurt her to excuse her husband's belief even to herself, 
 and gave her a feeling of disloyalty to him ; for a moment she 
 weakly longed to creep into the shelter of the monstrous error 
 in which she felt he lived, that they might be one there, as in 
 everything else. ' Yet it does not matter,' she said to herself, 
 smiling a little. ' We love each other. We know we don't think 
 alike on doctrinal points, but we love each other.' 
 
 She stopped a moment at the lumber-yard. The ghastly 
 blackness of the ruin glared against the snow-covered hills and 
 the dazzling blue of the sky ; here and there a puff of steam 
 showed where the melting snow on the cooler beams dripped on 
 the hot embers below. Some scattered groups of lumbermen 
 and their forlorn wives braved the cold, and stood talking the 
 fire over, for, after all, it was the immediate interest ; death 
 would not come to them for years, perhaps, but where were 
 they going to get money for their families during the spring? 
 There could be no rafting down the river until after the loggers 
 had brought their rafts from up in the mountains, to be sawed 
 into planks. 
 
 Alfaretta's father, who stood contemplating the ruins, and* 
 moralizing when anyone would stop to listen to him, had pointed 
 this out. Mr. Dean was -a carpenter, and kept a grocery store as 
 well, so he could pity the lumbermen from the shelter of com- 
 parative affluence. When he saw the preacher's wife, he came 
 over to speak to her
 
 90 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Well, ma'am,' he said, 'the dispensations of Providence is 
 indeed mysterious that the river should have been froze last 
 night ! ' 
 
 Mr. Dean had a habit of holding his mouth open a moment 
 before he spoke, a-nd looking as though he felt that his listener 
 was impatient for his words, which were always pronounced 
 with great deliberation. Helen had very little patience with him, 
 and used to answer his slowly uttered remarks with a quickness 
 which confused him. 
 
 ' It would be more mysterious if it were not frozen at this time 
 of the year/ she replied, almost before he had finished speaking. 
 She was in haste to reach Mrs. Davis, and she had no time to hear 
 Elder Dean's platitudes. 
 
 He began to open his beak-like mouth in an astonished way, 
 when a by-stander interrupted him : ' I suppose this here sudden 
 death in our midst' it was easy to fall into pious phraseology in 
 the presence of Elder Dean ' will be made the subject of the 
 prayer-meeting to-night.' 
 
 ' It will,' said Mr. Dean solemnly ' it will. It is an awful 
 example to unbelievers. An' it is a lesson to the owners not to 
 allow smoking in the yards.' Then, with a sharp look at Helen 
 out of his narrow eyes, he added, ' I haven't seen you at prayer- 
 meeting lately, Mrs. Ward. It is a blessed place, a blessed 
 place : the Lord touches sinners' hearts with a live coal from 
 off His altar; souls have been taught to walk in the light, in 
 the light of God.' Mr. Dean prolonged the last word in an 
 unctuous way, which he reserved for public prayer and ad- 
 monition. 
 
 Helen did not answer. 
 
 But the elder was not rebuffed. ' I hope we -will see you soon,' 
 he said. ' A solemn season of revival is approaching. Why have 
 you stayed away so long, Mrs. Ward ? ' 
 
 Annoyed at the impertinence of his questions, Helen's face 
 flushed a little. 
 
 ' I do not like the prayer-meeting,' she answered quietly ; but 
 before the elder could recover from the shock of such a statement, 
 Mrs. Nevins had come up to speak to him. 
 
 ' Have you seen Mrs. Davis yet, Mr. Dean ? ' she said. ' She 
 took on awful last night ; the neighbours heard her. 'Twas after 
 twelve 'fore she was quiet.' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw her,' responded the elder, shaking his head in a 
 pompous way. 'I went to administer consolation. I'm just 
 coming from there now. It is an awful judgment on that man : 
 no chance for repentance, overtook by hell, as I told Mrs. Davis, 
 in a moment ! But the Lord must be praised for His justice : 
 that ought to comfort her.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' cried Helen, ' you did not tell that poor woma/. 
 her husband was overtaken by hell ? '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. gr 
 
 ' Ma'am,' said Mr. Dean, fairly stuttering with astonishment at 
 the condemnation of her tone, ' I I did.' 
 
 ' Oh, shame !' Helen said, heedless of the listeners around them. 
 ' How dared you say such a thing ? How dared you libel the 
 goodness of God ? Tom f/avis is not in hell. A man who died to 
 save another's life ? Wh.o would want the heaven of such a God ? 
 Oh, that poor wife ! H jw could you have had the heart to make 
 her think God was so eruel ? ' 
 
 There was a dead silence ; Elder Dean was too dumbfounded 
 to speak, and the others, looking at Helen's eyes flashing 
 through her tears of passionate pain, were almost persuaded 
 that she was right. They waited to hear more, but she turned 
 and hurried away, her breath quick, and a tightened feeling in 
 her throat. 
 
 The elder was the first to break the spell of her words, but he 
 opened his lips twice before a sound came. ' May the Lord for- 
 give her ! Tom Davis not in hell ! Why, where is the good of a 
 hell at all, then ? ' 
 
 Helen's heart was burning with sympathy for the sorrow which 
 had been so cruelly wounded. She had forgotten the reserve 
 which respect for her husband's opinions always enforced. ' It is 
 wicked to have said such a thing ! -' she thought, as she walked 
 rapidly along over the creaking snow. ' I will tell her it is not 
 true it never could be true.' 
 
 The path through the rugged, unkempt garden in front of the 
 tenement house was so trodden that the snow was packed and 
 hard. The gate swung back with a jar and clatter, and two 
 limp frosted hens flew shrieking out from the shelter of the ash- 
 heap behind it. The door was open, and Helen could see the 
 square of the entry, papered, where the plaster had not been 
 broken away, with pale green castles embowered in living trees. 
 On either side was the entrance to a tenement ; a sagging nail in 
 one of the door-posts held a coat and a singed and battered hat. 
 Here Helen knocked, 
 
 Mrs. Davis was in the small inner room, but came out as her 
 visitor entered, wiping the soapsuds from her bare arms on her 
 dingy gingham apron. On the other side of the room, opposite 
 the door, was that awful Presence, which silenced even the voices 
 of the children. 
 
 ' I'm washing,' the woman said, as she gave her hand to Helen. 
 ' It is Tom's best shirt fer to-morrow.' 
 
 Helen took the hand, wrinkled and bleached with the work it 
 had done, and stroked it gently ; she did noc know what to say. 
 This was not the grief she had thought of a woman working 
 calmly at her wash-tub, while her husband lay dead in the next 
 room. Helen could see the tub, with the mist of steam about it, 
 and the wash-board, and the bar of yellow soap. 
 
 She followed Mrs. Davis back to her work, and sat down on a
 
 92 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 bench, out of the way of a little stream of water which had drip- 
 ped from the leaking- tub, and trickled across the floor. She 
 asked about the children, and said she had brought some food for 
 them ; she knew it was so hard to have to think of housekeeping 
 at such a time. 
 
 But the widow scarcely listened; ^'he stood lifting the shirt 
 from the water, and rubbing it gently between her hard hands, 
 then dipping it back into the suds again. Once she stopped, and 
 drew the back of her wet hand across hex' eyes, and once Helen 
 heard her sigh ; yet she did not speak of her sorrow, nor of Elder 
 Dean's cruel words. For a little while the two women were 
 silent. 
 
 ' Mrs. Davis,' Helen said at last, ' I'm so sorry.' 
 
 It was a very simple thing to say, but it caught the woman's 
 ear ; it was different from any of the sympathy to which, in a 
 dull, hopeless way, she had listened all that morning. The 
 neighbours had sighed and groaned, and told her it was ' awful 
 hard on her,' and had pitied Tom for his terrible death ; and 
 then Mr. Dean had come, with fearful talk of justice, and of 
 hell. 
 
 A big tear rolled down her face, and dropped into the tub. 
 'Thank you, ma'am,' she said. 
 
 She made a pretence of turning towards the light of the one 
 small window to see if the shirt was quite clean ; then she began 
 to wring it out, wrapping the twist of wet linen about her wrist. 
 When she spoke again her voice was steady. 
 
 ' Elder Dean 'lows I oughtn't to be sorry ; he says I'd ought to 
 be resigned to God's justice. .He says good folks ought to be 
 glad when sinners go to the bad place, even if they're belonging 
 to them. He 'lows I'd oughtn't to be sorry.' 
 
 ' I am sure you have a right to be sorry Tom is dead,' Helen 
 said the woman's composure made her calm, too ' but I do 
 not believe he is in any place now that need make you sorry. I 
 do not believe what Elder Dean said about hell.' 
 
 Mrs. Davis looked at her, a faint surprise dawning in her 
 tired eyes, and shook her head. 'Oh, I'm not saying that he 
 ain't right ; I'm not saying Tom ain't in the bad place, ner that 
 it ain't justice. I'm a Christian woman. I was convicted and 
 converted when I wasn't but twelve years old, and I know my 
 religion. Tom he wasn't no Christian, he didn't ever experi- 
 ence a change of heart ; it was always like as if he was just going 
 to be converted, when he wasn't in drink ; fer he was good in his 
 heart, Tom was. But he wasn't no Christian, and I'm not saying 
 he isn't lost. I'm only saying* this with a sudden passion, and 
 knotting her tremulous hands hard together ' I'm only saying I 
 can't love God no more ! Him having all the power and then 
 look at Tom an' me ' 
 
 Helen tried to speak, but Mrs. Davis would not listen. ' No
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 93 
 
 she cried, 'yer the preacher's wife, but I must say it. He never 
 give Tom a chance, an' how am I goin' to love Him now ? Tom' 
 she pointed a shaking finger at the coffin in the next room 
 ' born, as you might say, drinkin' . His father died in a drunken 
 fit, and his mother give it to her baby with her milk. Then, what 
 schoolin' did he get ? Nothin', 'less it was his mother lickin' 
 him. Tom's often told me that. He hadn't no trade learned, 
 neither just rafted with men as bad as him. Is it any wonder 
 he wasn't converted ? ' 
 
 ' I know all that,' Helen began to say gently, but Mrs. Davis 
 could not check the torrent of her despairing grief. 
 
 ' He didn't have no chance ; an' he didn't ask to be born, nei- 
 ther. God put him here, an' look at the way He made him live ; 
 look at this house ; see the floor, how the water runs down into 
 that corner ; it is all sagged an' leanin' the whole thing is rot- 
 ten ; look at that one window, up against the wall ; not a ray of 
 sunshine ever struck it. An's here's where God's made us live. 
 Six of us, now the baby's come. Children was the only thing we 
 was rich in, and we didn't have food enough to put in their 
 mouths, or decent clothes to cover 'em. Look at the people 
 round us here livin' in this here row of tenements drinkin', ly- 
 in', swearin'. What chance had Tom ? God never give him any, 
 but He could have, if He'd had a mind to. So I can't love Him, 
 Mrs. Ward I can't love Him ; Him havin' all the power, and yet 
 lettin' Tom's soul go down to hell ; fer Tom couldn't help it, and 
 him livin' so. I ain't denyin' religion, ner anything like that 
 I'm a Christian woman, an' a member but I can't love Him, so 
 there's no use talkin' I can't love Him.' 
 
 She turned away, and shook the shirt out, hanging it over the 
 back of a chair in front of the stove to dry. Helen had followed 
 her, and put her arm across the thin, bent shoulders, her eyes full 
 of tears, though the widow's were hard and bright. 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs. Davis,' she cried, ' of course you could not love a 
 God who would never give Tom a chance, and then punish him ; 
 of course you could not love Him ! But he is not punished by 
 being sent to hell ; indeed, indeed, he is not. If God is good, 
 He could not be so cruel as to give a soul no chance, and then 
 send it to hell Don't ever think that Tom, brave fellow, is there ! 
 Oh, believe what I say to you ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Davis seemed stupefied. She looked up into those beau- 
 tiful distressed brown eyes, and her dry lips moved. 
 
 'You don't think,' she said in a hoarse, hurried whisper 
 ' you're not saying Tom isn't in hell ? ' 
 
 ' I know he is not, I know it ! Justice ? it would be the most 
 frightful injustice, because, don't you see,' she went on eagerly, 
 ' it is just as you said Tom had no chance, so God could not 
 punish him eternally for being what he had to be, born as he 
 was, and living as he did. I don't know anything about peo-
 
 94 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 f 
 
 >le's souls when they die I mean about going to heaven but 
 
 do know this : as long as a soul lives it has a chance for 
 goodness, a chance to turn to God. There is no such place as 
 hell ! ' 
 
 ' But but 'the widow faltered, 'he was cut off in his sins. 
 The preacher wouldn't say but he was lost ! ' Her words were a 
 wail of despair. 
 
 Helen groaned ; she was confronted by her loyalty to John ; yet 
 the suffering of this hopeless soul! 'Listen,' she said, taking 
 Mrs. Davis' hands in hers, and speaking slowly and tenderly, 
 while she held the weak, shifting eyes by her own steady look, 
 1 listen. I do not know what the preacher would say, but it 
 is not true that Tom is lost ; it is not true that God is cruel 
 and wicked ; it is not true that, while Tom's soul lives, he cannot 
 grow good.' 
 
 The rigid look in the woman's face began to disappear : 
 her hopeless belief was shaken, not through any argument, but 
 by the mere force of the intense conviction shining in Helen's 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Oh,' she said appealingly, and beginning to tremble, 'are you 
 true with me, ma'am ? ' 
 
 ' I am true, indeed I am ! ' Helen answered, unconscious that 
 her own tears fell upon Mrs. Davis' hands ; the woman looked at 
 her, and suddenly her face began to flush that painful red which 
 comes before violent weeping. 
 
 'If you're true, if you're right, then I can be sorry. I wouldn't 
 let myself be sorry while I couldn't have no hope. Oh, I can be 
 that sorry it turns me glad ! ' 
 
 The hardness was all gone now ; she broke out into a storm of 
 tears, saying between her sobs, 'Oh, I'm so glad I'm so glad ! ' 
 
 A long time the two women sat together, the widow still shaken 
 by the gusts of weeping, yet listening hungrily to Helen's words, 
 and sometimes even smiling through her tears. The hardship of 
 loss to herself and her children was not even thought of ; there 
 was only intense relief from horrible fear ; she did not even stop 
 to pity Tom for the pain of death ; coming out of that nightmare 
 of hell, she could only rejoice. 
 
 The early sunset flashed a sudden ruddy light through the 
 window in the front room, making a gleaming bar on the bare 
 whitewashed nail, and startling Helen with the lateness of the 
 hour. 
 
 ' I must go now,' she said rising. ' I will come again to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 Mrs. Davis rose, too, lifting her tear-stained face, with its 
 trembling smile, towards her deliverer. ' Won't you come in the 
 other room a minute ? ' she said. ' I want to show you the coffin. 
 I got the best I could, but I didn't have no pride in it. It seems 
 different now.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 95 
 
 They went in together, Mrs. Davis crying quietly. Tom's face 
 was hidden, and a fine instinct of possession, which came with 
 the strange uplifting of the moment, made his wife shrink from 
 incovering it. 
 
 She stroked the varnished lid of the coffin, with her rough 
 hands, as tenderly is though the poor bruised body within could 
 feel her touch. 
 
 ' How do you like it ? ' she asked anxiously. ' I wanted to do 
 what I could for Tom. I got the best I could. Mr. Ward give 
 me some money, and I spent it in this way. I thought I wouldn't 
 mind going hungry, afterwards. You don't suppose,' this with 
 a sudden fear, as one who dreads to fall asleep lest a terrible 
 dream may return 'you don't suppose I'll forget these things 
 you've been tellin' me, and think that of Tom ? ' 
 
 'No,' Helen answered, 'not if you just say to yourself that I 
 told you what Mr. Dean said was not true. Never mind if you 
 cannot remember the reasons I have given you I'll tell them all 
 to you again ; just try and forget what the elder said.' 
 
 ' I will try,' she said ; and then, wavering a little, ' but the 
 preacher, Mrs. Ward ? ' 
 
 ' The preacher,' Helen answered bravely, 'will think this way, 
 too, some day, I know.' And then she made the same excuse 
 for him which she had given Alfaretta, with the same pang of 
 regret. 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' the woman said, ' I see. I feel now as though 
 I could love God real hard 'cause He's good to Tom. But, Mrs. 
 Ward, the preacher must be wonderful good, fer he can think 
 God would send my Tom to hell, and yet he can love Him ! I 
 couldn't do it.' 
 
 ' Oh, he's good ! ' Helen cried, with a great leap of her heart. 
 
 The wind blew the powdered snow about, as she walked home 
 in the cold white dusk, piling it in great drifts, or leaving a ridge 
 of earth swept bare and clean. The blackened lumber-yards 
 were quite deserted in the deepening chill which was felt as soon 
 as the sun set ; the melting snow on the hot, charred planks had 
 frozen mto long icicles, and as she stopped to look at the ruin, 
 one snapped, and fell with a splintering crash. 
 
 One of those strangely unsuggested remembrances flashed into 
 her mind ; the gleam of a dove's white wing against the burning 
 blue of a July sk^/, the blaze of flowers in the rectory garden, and 
 the subtle, penetrating fragrance of mignonette. Perhaps the 
 contrast of the intense cold and the gathering night bruugnt tne 
 scene before her; she sighed; if she and John could ^o away 
 from this grief and misery and sin, which they seemed powerless 
 to relieve, and from this hideous shadow of Calvinism ! 
 
 'After all,' she thought, hurrying along towards home and 
 John, ' Mrs. Davis is right it is hard to love Him. He does not 
 give a chance to everyone; none of us can escape the inevitable 
 
 C
 
 96 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 past. And that is as hard as to be punished unjustly. And there 
 is no help for it all. Oh, where is God ? ' 
 
 Just as she left the lumber-yard district, she heard her name 
 called, and saw Gifford Woodhouse striding towards her. ' You 
 have been to those poor Davises, I suppose,' he said, as he 
 reached her side, and took her empty basket from her hand. 
 
 Yes,' she answered, sighing. 'Oh, Gifford, how dreadful it 
 all is the things these people say and really believe! ' Then she 
 told him of Elder Dean, and a little of her talk with Mrs. Davis. 
 Gifford listened, his face growing very grave. 
 
 ' And that is their idea of God?' he said, as she finished. 
 ' Well, it is mine of the devil. But I can't help feeling sorry you 
 spoke as you did to the elder.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asked. 
 
 'Well,' he said, 'to assert your opinion of the doctrine of 
 eternal damnation as you did, considering your position, Helen, 
 was scarcely wise.' 
 
 ' Do you mean because I am the preacher's wife ? ' she remon- 
 strated, smiling. ' I must have my convictions, if I am ; and I 
 could not listen to such a thing in silence. You don't know John, 
 if you think he would object to the expression of opinion.' Gifford 
 dared not say that John would object to the opinion itself. ' But 
 perhaps I spoke too forcibly; I should be sorry to be unkind, 
 even to Elder Dean.' 
 
 'Well,' Gifford said doubtfully, 'I only hope he may not feel 
 called upon to ' deal with you.' ' 
 
 They laughed, but the young man added, 'After all, when you 
 come to think of it, Helen, there is no bigotry or narrowness 
 which does not spring from a truth, and nothing is truer than 
 that sin is punished eternally. It is only their way of making 
 God responsible for it not ourselves and arranging the details 
 of fire and brimstone, which is so monstrous. Somebody says 
 that when the Calvinists decided on sulphur they did not know 
 the properties of caustic potash. But there are stages of truth ; 
 there's no use knocking a man down because he is only on the 
 first step of the ladder, which you have climbed into light. I 
 think belief in eternal damnation is a phrase in spiritual develop- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' But you don't really object tq my protest ? ' she said. ' Come, 
 Giff, the truth must be strong enough to be expressed.' 
 
 '1 don't object to the protest,' he answered slowly, 'but 
 hope the manner of it will not make things difficult for Mr. 
 Ward.' 
 
 Helen laughed in spite of her depression, ' Why, Gifford,' she 
 said, ' it is not like you to be so apprehensive, and over so small a 
 matter, too. Mr. Dean has probably forgotten everything I said, 
 and, except that I mean to tell him, John would never hear a 
 word about it.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 97 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IHR winter was passine very quietly at Ashurst ; the only really 
 great excitement was Helen's letter about the fire and Colonel 
 Drayton's attack of gout. 
 
 Life went on as it had as far back as anyone cared to remember, 
 with the small round of church festivals and little teas, and 
 the Saturday evening- whist parties at the rectory. But under 
 monotonous calm may lurk very wearing anxiety, and this was the 
 case in Ashurst. 
 
 Mr. Denner endeavoured, but with indifferent success, to con- 
 ceal the indecision which was still preying upon his mind. For 
 the suggestion gained from Jephtha had proved useless. He 
 had, indeed, tried to act upon it. A day or two after the 
 thought had come to him which so interrupted family prayers, 
 Mr. Denner sallied forth to learn his fate. It was surprising 
 how particular he was about his linen that morning for he 
 went in the morning and he arrayed himself in his best 
 clothes ; he saw no impropriety, considering the importance of 
 the occasion, in putting on his evening coat. He even wore 
 his new hat, a thing he had not done more than half a dozen 
 times at a funeral perhaps, or a fair since he bought it, three 
 years before. 
 
 It was a bright, frosty day, and the little gentleman stepped 
 briskly along the road towards the house of the two sisters. He 
 felt as light-hearted as any youth who goes a-wooing with a 
 reasonable certainty of a favourable answer from his beloved. He 
 even sang a little to himself, in a thin, sweet voice, keeping 
 tune with his stick, like a drum-major, and dwelling faithfully on 
 the prolonged notes. 
 
 ' Believe me,' sung Mr. Denner 
 
 1 " Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day." ' 
 
 Mr. Denner's rendering of charms was very elaborate. But 
 while he was still lingering on the last word, disappointment over- 
 took him. 
 
 Coming arm in arm down the road were two small figures. Mr. 
 Denner's sight was not what it once was ; he fumbled in the breast 
 of his bottle-green overcoat for his glasses, as a suspicion of the 
 truth dawned upon him. 
 
 His song died upon his lips, and he turned irresolutely, as 
 though to fly, but ir was too late ; he had recognised at the same 
 moment Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth Woodhouse. By no 
 possibility could he say which he had seen first. 
 
 He 7 advanced to meet them, but the spring had gone from his
 
 98 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 tread and the light from his eye ; he was thrown back upon his 
 perplexities. The sisters, still arm-in-arm, made a demure little 
 bow, and stopped to say 'Good-morning,' but Mr. Denner was 
 evidently depressed and absent-minded. 
 
 ' I wonder what's the matter with William Denner, sister ? ' Miss 
 Ruth said, when they were out of hearing. 
 
 ' Perhaps he's troubled about his house-keeping,' answered 
 Miss Deborah. ' I should think he might be, I must say. That 
 Mary qf his does keep him looking so ! And I have no doubt 
 she is wasteful ; a woman who is economical with her needle and 
 thread is pretty apt to be saving in other things.' 
 
 ' What a pity he hasn't a wife ! ' commented Miss Ruth. ' Adele 
 .Dale says he's never been in love. She says that that affair with 
 Gertrude Drayton was a sort of inoculation, and he's been per- 
 fectly healthy ever since.' 
 
 ' Very coarse in dear Adele to speak in that way,' said Miss 
 Deborah sharply. ' I suppose he has never gotten over Ger- 
 trude's loss. Yet, if his sister-in-law had to die, it is a pity it 
 wasn't a little sooner. He was too old when she died to think of 
 marriage.' 
 
 ' But, dear Deborah, he is not quite too old even yet, if he 
 found a person of proper age. Not too young, and of course, not 
 too old.' 
 
 Miss Deborah did not reply immediately. 'Well, I don't 
 know; perhaps not/ she conceded. 'I do like a man to be of 
 an age to know his own mind. That is why I am so surprised 
 at Adele Dale's anxiety to bring about a match between young 
 Forsythe and Lois ; they are neither of them old enough to know 
 their own minds. And it is scarcely delicate in Adele, I must 
 say.' 
 
 ' He's a very superior young man,' objected Miss Ruth. 
 
 'Yes,' Miss Deborah acknowledged, 'and yet' she hesitated 
 a little ' I think he has not quite the the modesty one expects 
 in a young person.' 
 
 ' Yes, but think how he has seen the world, sister ! ' cried 
 Miss Ruth. ' You cannot expect him to be just like other young 
 people.' 
 
 ' True,' said Miss Deborah, nodding her head ; ' and yet* it 
 was evident from her persistence that Miss Deborah had a 
 grievance of some kind 'yet he seems to have more than a proper 
 conceit. I heard him talk about whist, one evening at the rectory ; 
 he said something about a person a Pole, I believe and 
 his rules in regard to ' signalling.' I asked him if he played,' 
 Miss Deborah continued, her hands showing a little angry 
 nervousness; and he said, 'Oh yes, I learned to plav one winter in 
 Florida ! ' Learned to play in a winter, indeed ! To achieve 
 whist* Miss Deborah held her head very straight ' to achieve
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 99 
 
 whist is the work of a lifetime ! I've no patience with a young 
 person who says a thing like that.' 
 
 Miss Ruth was silenced for a moment ; she had no excuse to 
 offer. 
 
 ' Adele Dale says the Forsythes are coming back in April,' she 
 said, at last. 
 
 ' Yes, I know it,' answered Miss Deborah. 'I suppose it will 
 all be arranged then. I asked Adele if Lois was engaged to him ; 
 she said, ' Not formally.' But I have no doubt there is an 
 understanding.' 
 
 Miss Deborah was so sure of this that she had even mentioned 
 it casually to Gifford, of course under the same seal of confidence 
 with which it had been told her. 
 
 It was quite true that Dick and his mother were to return to 
 Ashurst. After storming out of the rectory library the night of 
 the Misses Woodhouse's dinner-party, Dick had had a period of 
 hatred of everything connected with Ashurst ; but that did not last 
 more than a month, and was followed by an imploring letter to 
 Lois. Her answer brought the anger back again, and then its 
 reaction of love ; this see-saw was kept up, until his last letter 
 had announced that he and his mother were coming to take the 
 house they had had before, and spend the summer. 
 
 'We will come early,' he wrote. 'I cannot stay away. I 
 have made mother promise to open the house in April, so in a 
 month more I shall see you. I had an awful time to get her to 
 come ; she hates the country, except in summer, but at last she 
 said she would. She knows why I want to come, and she would 
 be so happy if and then the letter trailed off into a wail of 
 disappointment and love. 
 
 Impatient and worried, Lois threw the pages into the fire, 
 and had a malicious satisfaction in watching the elaborate crest 
 curl and blacken on the red coals. ' I wish he'd stay away,' 
 she said ; ' he bothers me to death. I hate him ! What a silly 
 letter ! ' 
 
 It was so silly, she found herself smiling, in spite of her 
 annoyance. Now, to feel amusement at one's lover is almost as 
 fatal as to be bored by him. But poor Dick had no one to tell 
 him this, and had poured out his heart on paper, in spite of some 
 difficulty in spelling, and could not guess that he was laughed at 
 for his pains. 
 
 Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were rewarded for their walk 
 into Ashurst by a letter from Gifford which made them quite 
 forget Mr. Denner's looks, and Mrs. Dale's bad taste in being 
 a match-maker. 
 
 He would be at home for one day the next week ; business 
 had called him from Lockhaven, and on his way back he would 
 stay a night in Ashurst. The little ladies were flurried with 
 happiness. Miss Deborah prepared more dainties than even
 
 loo JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Gifford's healthy appetite could possibly consume, and Miss 
 Ruth hung' her last painting' of apple-blossoms in his bedroom, 
 and let her rose jar stand uncovered on his 'ires-in^-table for two 
 days before his arrival. When he came, they hovered about him 
 with small caresses and little chirps of affection, as though they 
 would express all the love of the months in which they had not 
 seen him. 
 
 Gilford had thought he would go to the rector}' in the evening, 
 and somehow the companionship of his aunts while there had not 
 occupied his imagination ; but it would have been cruel to leave 
 them at home, so after tea, having tasted every one of Miss 
 Deborah's dishes, he begged them to come with him to see Dr. 
 Howe. They were glad to go anywhere if only with him, and each 
 took an arm, and bore him triumphantly to the rectory. 
 
 ' Bless my soul,' said Dr. Howe, looking at them over his 
 glasses, as they came into the library, ' it is good to see you again, 
 young man ! How did you leave Helen ? ' He pushed his chair 
 back from the fire, and let his newspapers rustle to the floor, as 
 he rose. Max came and sniffed about Gifford's knees, and wagged 
 his tail, hoping to be petted. Lois was the only one whose 
 greeting was constrained, and Gifford's gladness withered under 
 the indifference in her eyes. 
 
 ' She doesn't care,' he thought while he was answering Dr. 
 Howe, and rubbing Max's ears with his left hand. ' Helen 
 may be right about Forsythe, but she doesn't care for me, 
 either.' 
 
 'Sit here f dear Giff,' said Miss Ruth, motioning him to a chair 
 at her side. 
 
 'There's a draught there, dear Ruth,' cried Miss Deborah 
 anxiously. ' Come nearer the fire, Gifford.' But Gifford only 
 s.niled good-naturedly, and leaned his elbow on the mantel, 
 grasping his coat-collar with one hand, and listening to Dr. 
 Howe's questions about his niece. 
 
 ' She's very well,' he answered, 'and the happiest woman I 
 ever saw. Those two people were made for each other, doctor.' 
 
 'Well, now, see here, young man,' said the rector, who could 
 not help patronizing Gifford, ' you'll disturb that happiness if 
 you get into religious discussions with Helen. Women don't 
 understand that sort of thing;' young women, I mean,' he 
 added, turning to Miss Deborah and then suddenly looking 
 confused. 
 
 Gifford raised his eyebrows. ' Oh, well, Helen will reason, you 
 know ; she is not the woman *o take a creed for granted.' 
 
 ' She must,' the rector said, with a chuckle, ' if she's 
 a Presbyterian. She'll get into deep water if she goes to 
 discussing predestination and original sin, and all that sort of 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Gifford lightly, ' of course she does not discuss those
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. ioi 
 
 thing's, x don't think that sort of theological rubbish had to be 
 swept out of her mind before the really earnest questions of life 
 presented themselves. Helen is singularly free from thetrammels 
 of tradition for a woman.' 
 
 Lois looked up, with a little toss of her head, but Gilford did 
 not even notice her, nor realize how closely she was following his 
 words. 
 
 'John Ward, though,' Gifford went on, 'is the most perfect 
 Presbyterian I can imagine. He is logical to the bitter end, which 
 is unusual, I fancy. I asked him his opinion concerning a certain 
 man, a fellow named Davis perhaps Helen wrote of his death I 
 asked Ward what he thought of his chances for salvation ; he 
 acknowledged, sadly enough, that he thought he was damned. 
 He didn't use that word, I believe,' the young man added, 
 smiling, ' but it amounted to the same thing.' 
 
 There was an outcry from his auditors. ' Abominable ! ' said 
 Dr. Howe, bringing his fist heavily down on the table. ' I 
 shouldn't have thought that of Ward outrageous ! ' 
 
 Gifford looked surprised. ' What a cruel man ! ' Lois cried ; 
 while Miss Deborah said suddenly : 
 
 ' Giff dear, have those flannels of yours worn well ? ' But Gifford 
 apparently did not hear her. 
 
 ' Why, doctor,' he remonstrated, 'you misunderstand Ward. 
 And he is not cruel, Lois ; he is the gentlest soul I ever knew. 
 But he is logical, he is consistent ; he simply expresses 
 Presbyterianism with utter truth, without shrinking from its 
 conclusions.' 
 
 'Oh, he may be consistent,' the rector acknowledged, with easy 
 transition to good-nature, ' but that doesn't alter the fact that 
 he's a fool to say such things. Let him believe them, if he wants 
 to, but for Heaven's sake let him keep silent ! He can hold his 
 tongue and yet not be a Universalist. Media tutissimus ibis, you 
 know. It will be sure to offend the parish, if he consigns people 
 to the lower regions in such a free way.' 
 
 ' There is no danger of that,' Gifford said ; ' I doubt if he could 
 say anything on the subject of hell too tough for the spiritual 
 digestion of his flock. They are as sincere in their belief as he is, 
 though they haven't his gentleness ; in fact, they have his logic 
 without his light i there is very little^ of the refinement of religion 
 in Lockhaven.' 
 
 ' What a place to live in ! ' Lois cried. ' Doesn't Helen hate it ? 
 Of course she would never' say so to us, but she must ! Everybody 
 seems so dreadfully disagreeable ; and there is really no one Helen 
 could know.' 
 
 'Why, Helen knows them all,' answered Gifford in his slow 
 way, looking down at the girl's impulsive face. 
 
 ' Lois,' said her father, ' you are too emphatic in your way of 
 speaking ; be more mild. I don't like gush.'
 
 IC2 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Lois punctuates with exclamation points,' Gifford explained 
 good-naturedly, meaning to take the sting out of Dr. Howe's 
 reproof, but hurting her instead. 
 
 ' But, bless my soul/ said the rector, 'what does Helen say to 
 this sort of talk ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think she says anything, at least to him,' Gifford 
 answered. ' It is so unimportant to Helen ; she is so perfectly 
 satisfied with Ward, that his opinions are of no consequence. 
 She did fire up though, about Davis,' and then he told the story 
 of Elder Dean and Helen's angry protest. 
 
 Dr. Howe listened, first with grave disapproval and then with 
 positive irritation. 
 
 ' Dean,' Gifford concluded, 'has taken it very much to heart ; 
 he told me he's a client of mine, a stupid idiot, who never 
 reasoned a thing out in his life he told me that ' not to believe 
 in eternal damnation was to take a short cut to atheism.' He 
 also confided to me that ' a church which could permit such a 
 falling from the faith was in a diseased condition. I don't 
 believe that opinion has reached Ward, however. It would take 
 more grit than Dean possesses to dare to find fault with John 
 Ward's wife to her husband.' 
 
 ' What folly ! ' cried the rector, his face flushed with annoyance. 
 ' What possessed Helen to say such a thing ? She ought to have 
 had more sense. Mark my words, that speech of hers will make 
 trouble for Ward. I don t understand how Helen could be so 
 foolish ; she was brought up just as Lois was, yet, thank Heaven ! 
 her head wasn't full of whims about reforming a community. 
 What in the world made her express such an opinion if she had it, 
 and what made her have it ? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe had risen, and walked impatiently up and down the 
 room, and now stood in front of Gifford, with a forefinger raised 
 to emphasize his words, ' There is something so absurd, so un- 
 pleasant, in a young woman's meddling with things which don't 
 belong to her, in seeing a little mind struggle with ideas. Better 
 a thousand times settle down to look after her household, and 
 cook her husband's dinner, and be a good child.' 
 
 Lois laughed nervously. ' She has a cook,' she said. 
 ' Don't be pert, Lois, for Heaven's sake,' answered her father, 
 though Miss Deborah had added : 
 
 ' Gifford says dear Helen is a very good housekeeper.' 
 'Pray,' continued the rector, 'what business is it of hers 
 what people believe, or what she believes herself, for that 
 matter, provided she's a good girl, and does her duty in that 
 station of life where it has pleased God to put her as the wife of 
 a Presbyterian minister ? 'Stead of that she tries to grapple with 
 theological questions, and gets into hot water with the parish. 
 'Pon my word, I thought better of the child ! I'll write and tell 
 her what I think of it.' (And so he did, the very next day. But
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 103 
 
 his wrath had expended itself in words, and his letter showed no 
 more of his indignation than the powdery ashes which fell out of 
 it showed the tiame of the cigar he was smoking when he wrote 
 it.) ' And as for Ward himself,' the rector went on, ' I don't 
 know what to think of him. Did you know he had given up his 
 salary ? Said ' Helen had enough for them to live on,' and 
 added that they had no right to any more money than was 
 necessary for their comfort ; anything more than that belonged 
 to the Lord's poor. Bless my soul ! the clergyman comes under 
 that head, to my mind. Yes, sir, he is willing to live on his 
 wife ! I declare the fellow's a a well, I don't know any word 
 for him ! ' 
 
 There was a chorus of astonishment from the ladies. 
 ' ' Christian would be a pretty good word,' said Gifford slowly. 
 ' Isn't he following Christ's example rather more literally than 
 most of us ? ' 
 
 ' But to live on his wife ! ' cried Dr. Howe. 
 'I don't believe,' Gifford responded, smiling, ' that that would 
 distress John Ward at all.' 
 
 ' Apparently not,' said the rector significantly. 
 'He loves her too much,' Gifford went on, ' to think of himself 
 apart from her ? don't you see ? They are one ; what difference 
 does it make about the money ? ' 
 
 ' Could you do it ? ' asked Dr. Howe. 
 
 ' Well, no,' Gifford said, shrugging his shoulders ; ' but then 
 I'm not John Ward.' 
 
 ' Thank Heaven ! ' said the rector devoutly. 
 ' But it is a mistake, all the same,' Gifford went on ; 'it is 
 unbusinesslike, to say nothing of being bad for his people to 
 have the burden of support lifted from them ; it pauperizes them 
 spiritually.' 
 
 After the relief of this outburst against John Ward, Dr. 
 Howe felt the inevitable irritation at his hearers. ' Well, I 
 only mention this,' he said, ' because, since he is so strange, it 
 won't do, Gifford, for you to abet Helen in this ridiculous 
 scepticism of hers. If Ward agreed with her, it would be all 
 right, but so long as he does not, it will make trouble between 
 them, and a woman cannot quarrel with an obstinate and bigoted 
 man with impunity. And you have no business to have doubts 
 yourself, sir.' 
 
 The two sisters were much impressed with what the rector said. 
 ' I must really caution Giff," said Miss Deborah to Lois, ' not to 
 encourage dear Helen in thinking about things ; it's very un- 
 feminine to think, and Gifford is so clever, he doesn't stop to 
 remember she's but a woman. And he is greatly attached to 
 her; dear me, he has never forgotten what might have been, 
 this in almost a whisper
 
 104 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Both the sisters talked of Dr. Howe's anger as they went 
 home. 
 
 ' He's right,' said Miss Deborah, who had dropped her 
 nephew's arm, so that she might be more cautious about the 
 mud, and who lifted her skirt on each side, as though she was 
 about to make a curtsy 'he's right; a woman ought to think 
 just as her husband does ; it is quite wrong in dear Helen not to, 
 and it will bring unhappiness. Indeed, it is a lesson to all of us,' 
 she added. 
 
 Respect was an instinct with Gifford, and he did not stop to 
 think that it was a lesson by which Miss Deborah would have no 
 opportunity to profit. 
 
 But he was not listening closely to the chatter of the little 
 ladies ; he was thinking of Lois' indifference. ' She even looked 
 bored, once,' he thought ; ' but that does not necessarily mean 
 that she cares for Forsythe. I will trust her. She may never 
 love me, but she will never care for him.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE feeling in Lockhaven about Helen Ward's unbelief was not 
 confined to Eider Dean ; for everyone who knew Mrs. Davis 
 knew what the preacher's wife thought of Tom's salvation, and 
 judged her accordingly. As for the widow herself, the hope 
 Helen had given her quite died out under the fostering care of 
 Elder Dean. She grew more bitter than ever, and refused even 
 to speak on the subject. 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' she said wearily, when Helen went to her after 
 the funeral ' no, ma'am, 'tain't no use to talk. Elder Dean's 
 been here, and I know there ain't no good hopin'. Even the 
 preacher don't say there's any good hopin'. What you said was 
 a comfort, ma'am, but 'twasn't true. Twasn't religion. It's in 
 the Bible that there's a hell, and there's no use saying there isn't ; 
 sayin' there isn't won't keep us from it, Elder Dean says, and I 
 guess he's about right. I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, 
 ma'am; but I'm a Christian woman myself, and I can't deny 
 religion.' 
 
 There was no use arguing ; custom and a smattering of logic 
 settled her convictions, and no reasoning could move her dreary 
 hopelessness. 
 
 Helen told John of it, her head resting on his breast, and com- 
 forted by his mere presence. ' I know you believe in hell,' she 
 ended ; ' but, oh, John, it is so horrible ! ' 
 
 He stroked her hair softly. ' I am afraid, dearest,' he said, 
 Mrs. Davis is right. I am afrai<l there is no possibility of hope.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 105 
 
 The soul that sinneth, it shall die ; and shall not the Judge of all 
 the earth do right ? ' 
 
 Helen sprang to her feet. ' Oh,' she cried passionately ' that 
 is just it He does do right! Why, if I thought God capable of 
 sending Tom to hell, I should hate Him.' John tried to speak, 
 but she interrupted him. ' We will never talk of this again, 
 never ! Believe what you will, dearest it does not matter but 
 don't speak of it to me, if you love me. I cannot bear it, John. 
 Promise me.' 
 
 ' Oh, Helen,' he said, with tender reproach, ' would you have 
 me conceal my deepest life from you ? It would seem like living 
 apart, if there were one subject on which we dared not touch. 
 Just let me show you the truth and justice of all this ; let me tell 
 you how the scheme of salvation makes the mystery of sin and 
 punishment clear and right.' 
 
 ' No,' she said, the flush of pain dying out of her face, but her 
 eyes still shining with unshed tears ' no, I cannot talk of it. I 
 should be wicked if I could believe it ; it would make me wicked. 
 Don't ever speak to me of it,. John.' 
 
 She came and put her arms around him, and kissed his forehead 
 gently ; and she then left him to struggle with his conscience, 
 and to ask himself whether his delay had caused this feeling of 
 abhorrence, or whether the waiting had'been wise and should be 
 prolonged. 
 
 But Helen's words to Mrs. Davis were repeated, and ran from 
 mouth to mouth, with the strangest additions and alterations. 
 Mrs. Ward had said that there was no hell, and no heaven, and 
 no God. What wonder, then, with such a leaven of wickedness 
 at work in the church, that Elder Dean grew alarmed, and in the 
 bosom of his own family expressed his opinion of Mrs. Ward, and 
 at prayer-meeting prayed fervently for unbelievers, even though 
 she was not there to profit by it ? Once, while saying that the 
 preacher's wife was sowing tares among the wheat, he met with 
 an astonishing rebuff. Alfaretta dared tell her father that he 
 ought to be ashamed of himself to talk that way about a saint 
 and an angel, if ever there was one. 
 
 Mr. Dean was staggered ; a female, a young female, and his 
 daughter, to dare to say such a thing to him ! He opened his 
 mouth several times before he was able to speak. 
 
 AlfaretU was at home for her evening out, and her young man 
 was with 1 er, anxious for the clock to point to nine, that he might 
 ' see her home.' They had intended to leave the elder's early.and 
 wander off for a walk by the river, but prayers were delayed a 
 little, and after that Alfaretta had to listen to the good advice 
 given every week ; so Thaddeus lost all hope of the river-walk, 
 3.nd only watched for nine o'clock, when he knew she must start. 
 But in this, too, he was doomed to disappointment, for the out- 
 burst whjch so stunned the elder detained Alfaretta until after
 
 106 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ten, thereby causing Helen no little anxiety about her prompt and 
 pretty maid. 
 
 The ehler had closed his admonitions by warning his.daughter 
 not to be listening to any teachings of the preacher's wife, for she 
 was a backslider, and she had fallen from grace. ' In the first 
 place,' said the elder, laying down the law with uplifted hand, 
 ' she's a Episcopalian I heard her say that herself, when she first 
 come here ; and her letter of dismissal was from a church with 
 some Popish name St. Robert or Stephen I don't just remem- 
 ber. I've seen one of those churches. Thank the Lord, there 
 isn't one in Lockhaven. They have candles burning, and a big 
 brass cross. Rags of Popery they all belong to the Scarlet 
 Woman, I tell you ! But she's a backslider even from that, fer 
 they have some truth ; she's a child of the Evil One, with her 
 unbelief! ' 
 
 This was more than Alfaretta could bear. ' Indeed, pa,' she 
 cried, 'you don't know how good she is, or you wouldn't be 
 sayin' that! Look how she's slaved this winter fer the families 
 that ha' been in trouble, havin' no work ! ' 
 
 ' 'Tain't what she's done, Alfaretta,' said her father solemnly; 
 ' works without faith is of no avail. What says the Scripture ? 
 'A man is justified by faith* (by faith, Alfaretta!) 'without the 
 deeds of the law.' And what says the confession ? ' 
 
 Alfaretta, by force of habit, began to stumble through the answer; 
 ' ' We cannot by our best works merit pardon of sin, or eternal life 
 
 at the hand at the hand of God, by reason of ' ' Here her 
 
 memory failed her. 
 
 'Well,' her father said impatiently, 'can't you remember the 
 rest ? ' Works done by unregenerate men are sinful, and cannot 
 please God,' you know. Go on.' 
 
 But Alfaretta could not go on, and the elder would not betray 
 his own lack of memory by attempting to quote. 
 
 ' So you see,' he continued, ' it isn't any use to talk of how 
 good and kind she is, or what she does ; it is what she believes 
 that will settle her eternal salvation.' 
 
 But Alfaretta was unconvinced. ' Well, sir,' she said stubbornly, 
 ' it don't seem to me that way, fer she's the best woman, except 
 mother, I ever saw. I reckon if anybody goes to Heaven, she 
 will ; don't you, Thaddeus ? ' 
 
 Thaddeus was tilting back in his chair, his curly black head 
 against tue whitewashed wall, and th'is suddenly and embarras- 
 singly appealed to for he was divided between a desire to win 
 the approval of the elder and to show his devotion to Alfaretta 
 he brought his chair down with a clatter of all four legs on the 
 floor, and looked first at the father and then at the daughter, but 
 did not speak. 
 
 ' Don't you, Thaddeus ? ' repeated Alfaretta severely, for the 
 elder was dumb with astonishment.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 107 
 
 'Well,' said Thaddeus, struggling- for some opinion which 
 should please both ' well, I do suppose that we can hope for the 
 best ; that isn't against the Catechism.' 
 
 But the elder did not notice his feeble compromise, while Alfa- 
 retta only gave him a quick, contemptuous look, for her father, 
 opening and shutting his mouth slowly for a moment, began to 
 say : 
 
 ' How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a child that's 
 ungrateful for the best teaching and sound doctrine ! Many's the 
 time,' said the elder, lifting his eyes and hands ' many's the 
 time I've showed her the truth ; many's the time I've explained 
 how every other sort of religion is all wrong, and is of its father 
 the Devil! And I've brought her up faithful to the Catechism 
 and the confession, yet now the child would instruct the parent ! 
 This comes,' he cried, becoming very angry, and beating his hand 
 so violently upon the table that the family Bible fell with a crash 
 to the floor, from which Thaddeus lifted it ' this comes from your 
 settin' in the seat of the scornful, and bein' in the kitchen of an 
 unbeliever ! You'll leave her ; do you hear me, Alfaretta ; You'll 
 leave her this day month. I'll perform my duty to my child's 
 soul, even if Brother Ward's wife has to do her own cooking. Yes, 
 and I'll do my duty to Brother Ward, too, though I used to think 
 him a pious young man. I'll tell him he has got to convert that 
 woman's soul. She's a corrupter of youth, she's a teacher of false 
 doctrines her tellin' Mrs. Davis there wasn't any hell! she's a 
 a Episcopalian, so she is ! She'll experience a change of heart 
 or the Session will take this matter in hand.' 
 
 At this terrible threat, even Alfaretta was speechless, and her 
 mother put two shaking hands on her arm, and whispered, ' Oh, 
 Retta, I wouldn't say no more ; it makes your pa angry.' 
 
 ' Yes, continued the elder violently, ' that woman is the Jonah 
 of the church, and she's got to be dealt with ; to save her soul, 
 she's got to be disciplined, for the sake of everyone that heard 
 her false and lying tongue. I'll have her brought before the Ses- 
 sion and showed the truth, and she shall be saved. Tom Davis 
 not in hell, indeed ! ' 
 
 Mr. Dean stopped for breath. Alfaretta' s courage came back 
 with a rush. 
 
 1 Listen to me,' cried the young woman, stamping her foot 
 with excitement, for she was as angry as the elder himself 
 ' listen to me ! How can you say such things about her ? A 
 saint and angel if ever there was one. The Lord don't send no 
 one to hell, let alone such as her. And anyway, I'd rather go to 
 the bad place with her than stay with all the golden harps and 
 crowns in the best sort of heaven with them as would keep her out, 
 so 1 would ! ' 
 
 Here Alferetta broke down, and beg^an to cry. Thaddeus could
 
 io8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 not stand that; he edged up to her, murmuring, ' I wouldn't cry 
 Retta I wouldn't cry.' 
 
 But she only gave the shoulder he touched a vicious shake, and 
 cried harder than ever, saying, ' No I I bet you wouldn't 
 you'd never care.' 
 
 But Alfaretta's defence changed Mr. Dean's anger at the snub 
 he received from the preacher's wife into real alarm for his child's 
 spiritual welfare. A daughter of his to say the Lord did not send 
 souls to hell ! 
 
 ' Alfaretta," he said, wjth solemn slowness, ' you had better get 
 your bonnet and go home. I will see Mr. Ward about this ; his 
 wife's done harm enough. You've got to leave her I mean it. 
 I won't see her send my child to hell before my very eyes.' 
 
 ' Oh, pa,' Alfaretta entreated, choking and sobbing, and brush- 
 ing her tears away with the back of her hand, 'don't don't 
 say nothing to Mr. Ward, nor take me away. 'Twasn't her 
 made me say those things ; it was just my own self. Don't take 
 me away.' 
 
 ' Did she ever say anything to you about the iord not sendin' 
 people to hell ? ' asked her father. 
 
 ' Oh," said Alfaretta, growing more and more frightened, ' it 
 ain't what she talks about ; it's her being so good, an' ' 
 
 ' Did she ever,' interrupted the elder, with slow emphasis, 
 standing over her, and snaking his stubby forefinger at her 
 ' did she ever say the Lord didn't send Tom Davis to hell, to 
 you ? ' 
 
 Alfaretta cowered in her chair, and Thaddeus began to whimper 
 for sympathy. ' I don't know,' she answered desperately ' I 
 don't know anythin', except she's good.' 
 
 ' Listen to me,' said Mr. Dean, in his harsh, monotonous voice, 
 ' Did Mrs. Ward ever say anything to you about hell, or the Lord 
 not sending people there ? Answer me that.' 
 
 Then the loving little servant-maid, truthful as the blood of 
 Scotch ancestors and a Presbyterian training could make hei, faced 
 what she knew would bring remorse, and, for all she could tell, 
 unpardonable sin upon her soul, and said boldly, ' No, she never 
 did. She never said one single blessed word to me about hell.' 
 
 The wind seemed suddenly to leave the elder's sails, but the 
 collapse was only for a moment ; even Alfaretta's offering of her 
 first lie upon the altar of her devotion to her mistress was not to 
 save her. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, opening his mouth slowly and looking about 
 with great dignity, ' if she hasn't said it to you, she has to other 
 people, I'll be bound. Per she said it to Mrs. Davis, and ' the 
 elder inflated his chest, and held his head high ' and me. It is 
 my duty as elder to take notice of it, fer her own soul's sake, and 
 to open her husband's eyes, if he's been too blind to see it. Yes, 
 the Session should deal with her. Prayers ain't no good fer such
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 109 
 
 as her,' he said, becoming excited. ' Ain't she heard my prayers 
 most all winter, till she gave up coming to prayer-meeting, pre- 
 ferrin' to stay outside, 
 
 ' ' Where sinners meet, and awful scoffers dwell ? ' 
 
 An' I've exhorted ; but ' the elder raised his eyes piously to 
 heaven ' Paul may plant and Apollos may water, but it don't do 
 no good.' 
 
 Alfaretta knew her father's iron will too well to attempt any 
 further protests. She wiped her eyes, and, while she put on a hat 
 adorned with an aggressive white feather, she bade the family good- 
 night in an unsteady voice. Thaddeus, anxious only to escape 
 notice, sidled towards the door, and stood waiting for her, with a 
 deprecating look on his round face. 
 
 In spite, however, of the elder's indignation and his really 
 genuine alarm about the influences which surrounded his child, 
 he had a prudent after-thought in the matter of her leaving 
 the service of Mrs. Ward. It was difficult to get anything in 
 Lockhaven for a young woman to do, and times were hard that 
 year. 
 
 'You ah you needn't give notice to-night, Alfaretta,' he 
 said. ' I'll speak to the preacher about it myself. But mind 
 you have as little to say to her as you can, and may fhe Lord 
 protect you ! ' 
 
 But the elder's plans for cautioning his pastor were doomed to 
 disappointment. He was a prisoner with lumbago for the next 
 fortnight, and even the most sincere interest in someone else's 
 spiritual welfare cannot tempt a man out of the house when he 
 is bent almost double with lumbago. Nor when John came to 
 see him, could he begin such a conversation as he had planned, 
 for his neck was too stiff to allow him to raise his head and look 
 in Mr. Ward's face. When he recovered, he was delayed still 
 another week, because the preacher had gone away to General 
 Assembly. 
 
 But Alfaretta was far too miserable to find in her father's com- 
 mand ' not to give notice to-night ' any ray of comfort. She 
 choked dowr her tears as best she might, and started for the 
 parsonage. 
 
 Thaddeus had almost to run to keep up with her, such was her 
 troubled and impatient haste, and she scarcely noticed him, though 
 he tramped through the mud to show his contrition, instead of 
 taking his place by her side on the board walk. 
 
 It is curious to see how a simple MHI! inflicts useless punishment 
 upon itself, when the person it has offended refuses to retaliate. 
 Had Alfaretta scolded, Thaddeus would not have walked in the 
 mud. 
 
 Her silence was most depressing.
 
 no JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Retta,' he ventured timidly, 'don't be mad with me now 
 don't.' 
 
 He came a little nearer, and essayed to put an arm about her 
 waist, a privilege often accorded to him on such an occasion. 
 But now she flounced away from him, and said sharply, ' You 
 needn't be comin' round me, Mr. Thaddeus Green. Anybody 
 that thinks my Mrs. Ward isn't goin' to heaven had just better 
 keep off from me, fer I'm goin' with her, wherever that is; and 
 I suppose, if you think that of me, you'd better not associate with 
 me.' 
 
 ' I didn't s&yyou was goin',' protested Thaddeus tearfully, but 
 she interrupted him with asperity : 
 
 'Don't I tell you I'm bound to go where she goes? And if 
 you're so fearful of souls bein' lost, I wonder you don't put all 
 your money in the missionary-box, instead of buying them new 
 boots.' 
 
 Perhaps it was the thought of the new boots, but Thaddeus 
 stepped on the board walk, and this time, unreproved, slipped his 
 arm about Alfaretta's waist. 
 
 ' Oh, now, Retta,' he said, ' I didn't mean any harm. I only 
 didn't want the elder thinkin' I wasn't sound, for he'd be sayin' 
 we shouldn't keep company, an' that's all I joined the church for 
 last spring.' 
 
 'Well, then,' said Alfaretta, willing to be reconciled if it brought 
 any comfort, ' you do think Mrs. Ward will go to heaven ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' Thaddeus answered with great confidence, and added in 
 a burst of gallantry, ' She'll have to, Retta, if she goes along with 
 you, for you'll go there, sure ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MRS. FORSYTHE did not come to Ashur.st until the middle of April, 
 and then she came alone. Dick had been detained, she said, and 
 would come in a week or two. So Lois breathed freely, though 
 she knew it was only a respite, and made the most of her freedom 
 to go and see his mother. 
 
 She was very fond of the invalid, who always seemed to her, 
 in her glowing, rosy health, like an exquisite bit of porcelain, she 
 was so fine and dainty, with soft white hair curling around her 
 gentle and melancholy face. Mrs. Forsythe dressed in delicate 
 grays and lavenders, and her fingers were covered with rings, and 
 generally held some filmy fancy-work. Her invalidism had only 
 given her an air of interesting fragility, which made Lois long to 
 put her strong young arms about her, to shield her lest any wind 
 might blow too roughly upon her. 
 
 Mrs. Forsythe accepted her devotion with complacency. She
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. in 
 
 had never had this adoring tenderness from her son, who had 
 heard her remark that she was at the gates of death too often, to 
 live in a state of anxiety ; but to Lois her gentle resignation and 
 heavenly anticipations were most impressive. The girl's affection 
 almost reconciled the elder lady to having been made to come to 
 Ashurst while the snow still lingered in sheltered spots, and before 
 the crocuses had lighted their golden censers in her garden ; for 
 Lois went to see her every day, and though she could not always 
 escape without a meaning look from the invalid, or a sigh for Dick's 
 future, she thoroughly enjoyed her visits. It was charming to sit 
 in the dusk, before the dancing flames of an apple-wood fire, the 
 air fragrant with the hyacinths and jonquils of the window garden, 
 and listen to tales of Mrs. Forsythe's youth. 
 
 Lois had never heard such stories. Mrs. Dale would have said 
 it was not proper for young girls to know of love affairs, and it is 
 presumable that the Misses Woodhouse never had any to relate ; 
 so this was Lois' first and only chance, and she would sit, clasping 
 her knees with her hands, listening with wide, frank eyes, and 
 cheeks flushed by the fire and the tale. 
 
 ' But then, my poor health,' Mrs. Forsythe ended with a sigh, 
 one evening, just before it was time for Lois to go ; ' of course it 
 interfered very much.' 
 
 ' Why, were you ill then,' Lois said, 'when you used to dance 
 all night ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear me, yes,' answered the other, shaking her head; ' I 
 have been a sufferer all my life, a great sufferer. Well, it cannot 
 last much longer ; this poor body is almost worn out.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't say it ! ' Lois cried, and kissed the soft white hand 
 with its shining rings, in all the tenderness of her young heart. 
 
 All this endeared the girl very much, and more than once 
 Mrs. Forsythe wrote of her sweetness and goodness to her son. 
 Miss Deborah, or Miss Ruth, or even Mrs. Dale, would have been 
 careful in using the name of any young woman in writing to a 
 gentleman, but Mrs. Forsythe had not been born in Ashurst. 
 
 However, Dick still lingered, and Lois rejoiced, and even her 
 anticipation of the evil time to come, when he should arrive and 
 end her peaceful days, could not check her present contentment. 
 It was almost May, and that subtle, inexplicable joy of the spring- 
 time made it a gladness even to be alive. Lois rambled about, 
 hunting for the first green spears of that great army of flowers 
 which would soon storm the garden, and carrying any treasure 
 she might find to Mrs. Forsythe's sick-room. The meadows were 
 spongy with small springs, bubbling up under the faintly green 
 grass. The daffadowndillies showed bursting yellow buds, and 
 the pallid, frightened-looking violets brought all their mystery of 
 unfolding life to the girl's happy eyes. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon, while she was looking for the bunch 
 of grape hyacinths which came up each year, beside the stout 
 
 H
 
 112 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 bench, she was especially light-hearted. Word had come from 
 Helen that the long-promised visit should be made the first week 
 in June. ' It can only be for a week, you know,' Helen wrote, 
 'because I cannot be away from John longer than that, and I 
 must be back for our first anniversary, too.' 
 
 More than this, Mrs. Forsythe had sighed, and told her that 
 poor dear Dick's business seemed to detain him ; it was such a 
 shame ! And perhaps he could not get to Ashurst fora fortnight. 
 So Lois Howe was a very happy and contented girl, Standing under 
 the soft blue of the April sky, and watching her flock of white 
 pigeons wheeling and circling about the gable of the red barn, 
 while the little stream, which had gained a stronger voice since 
 the spring rains, babbled vociferously at her side. The long, 
 transparent stems of the flowers broke crisply between her fingers, 
 as she heard her name called. 
 
 Mr. Denner, with his fishing-basket slung under one arm and 
 his rod across his shoulder, was regarding her through a gap in 
 the hedge. 
 
 ' A lovely day ! ' said the little gentleman, his brown eyes 
 twinkling with a pleasant smile. 
 
 ' Indeed, it is, sir,' Lois answered ; ' and look at the flowers I've 
 found.' 
 
 She tipped the basket of scented grass on her arm that he might 
 see them. Mr. Denner had stopped to ask if Mrs. Forsythe would 
 be present at the whist party that night, and was rather relieved 
 to learn that she was not able to come ; he had lost his hand the 
 week before, because she had arrived with the Dales. Then he 
 inquired about her son's arrival, and went away thinking what a 
 simple matter a love-affair was to some people. Lois and that 
 .young man ! Why, things were really arranged for them ; they 
 had almost no responsibility in the matter; their engagement 
 settled itself, as it were. 
 
 He walked abstractedly towards the house, wrestling with the 
 old puzzle. Nothing helped him, or threw light on his uncertainty ; 
 he was tired of juggling with fate, and was growing desperate. 
 
 ' I wish they would settle it between themselves,' he murmured, 
 with a wistful wrinkle on his forehead. Suddenly a thought 
 struck him ; there was certainly one way out of his difficulty : 
 he could ask advice. He could lay the whole matter frankly 
 before some dispassionate person, whose judgment should 
 determine his course. Why had he not thought of it before ! 
 Mr. Denner's face brightened ; he walked gaily along, and began 
 to hum to himself : 
 
 ' Oh, wert thou, love, but near me, 
 
 But near, near, near me, 
 How fondly wouldst thou cheer me I '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. iij 
 
 Here he stopped abruptly. Whom should he ask? He went 
 carefully through his list of friends, as he trudged along the 
 muddy road. 
 
 Not Dr. Howe : he did not take a serious enough view of such 
 things ; Mr. Denner recalled that scene in his office, and 
 his little face burned. Then there was Mrs. Dale ; she was a 
 woman, and of course she would know the real merit of each 
 of the sisters. Stay : Mrs. Dale did not always seem in sym- 
 pathy with the Misses Woodhouse ; he had even heard her 
 say things which were not, perhaps, perfectly courteous ; that 
 the sisters had been able to defend themselves, Mr. Denner 
 overlooked. Colonel Drayton : well, a man with the gout is 
 not the confidant for a lover. He was beginning to look depressed 
 again, when the light came. Henry Dale ! No one could be 
 better. 
 
 Mr. Denner awaited the evening with impatience. He would 
 walk home with the Dales, he thought, and then he and Henry 
 could talk it all over, down in the study. 
 
 He was glad when the cool spring night began to close, full of 
 that indefinable fragrance of fresh earth and growing things, and 
 before it was time to start he cheered himself bv a little music. 
 He went into the dreary, unused parlor, and pulling up the green 
 Venetian blinds, which rattled like castanets, he pushed back the 
 ivy-fastened shutters, and sat down by the open window ; then, 
 with his chin resting upon his fiddle, and one foot in its drab 
 gaiter swinging across his knee, he played mournfully and shrilly 
 in the twilight, until it was time to start. 
 
 He saw the Misses Woodhouse trotting toward the rectory, with 
 Sarah walking in a stately way behind them, swinging her un- 
 lighted lantern, and cautioning them not to step in the mud. But 
 he made no effort to join them ; it was happiness enough to 
 contemplate the approaching solution of his difficulties, and say 
 to himself triumphantly, ' This time to-morrow ! ' and he began 
 joyously to play, ' Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,' rendering 
 carefully all the quavefs in that quavering air. 
 
 Mr. Denner's meditations made him late at the rectory, and he 
 felt Mrs. Dale look sternly at him ; so he made haste to deal, sit- 
 ting well forward in his chair, under which he tucked his little 
 feet, and putting down each card with nervous care. His large 
 cuffs almost hid his .small, thin hands, and now and then he 
 paused to rub his thumb and forefinger together, that the cards 
 might not stick 
 
 But Mr. Denner did not play well that night ; Miss Deborah 
 looked at him with mild reproach, and was almost angry when he 
 answered her with an absent smile. 
 
 The evening seemed very long to Mr. Denner, and even 
 when the party had said ' Good-night ' Mr. Dale was slow about 
 getting off; he put his wife into the carriage, and then stopped to
 
 114 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ask Dr. Howe if he had the first edition of ' Japhet in Search of a 
 Father ; ? 
 
 ' In search of a father ! ' Mr. Denner thought, as he stood wait- 
 ing by the steps. ' How can he be interested in that ? ' 
 
 At last the front door closed, and Mr. Dale and Mr. Denner 
 walked silently down the lane in the starlight, the lawyer's little 
 heart beating- so with excitement that he had a suffocating feeling, 
 and once or twice put his hand to his throat, as though to loosen 
 his muffler. 
 
 Mr. Dale, still absorbed in his first edition, took swinging strides, 
 the tails of his soft brown overcoat flapping and twisting about 
 his long, thin legs. Mr. Denner had now and then almost to 
 break into a trot to keep up with him. 
 
 Mr. Dale walked with his hands clasped behind him, and his 
 stick under his arm ; his soft felt hat was pulled down over his 
 eyes, so that his keeping the path was more by chance than sight. 
 He stopped once to pick up a sprig from the hawthorn hedge, to 
 put between his lips. This gave Mr. Denner breath, and a chance 
 to speak. 
 
 ' I think I will walk home with you, Henry,' he said. ' I want 
 to have a talk with you.' 
 
 His heart thumped as he said that ; he felt he had committed 
 himself. 
 
 ' Well, now, that's very pleasant,' responded Mr. Dale. ' I was 
 just thinking I should be alone half the way home." 
 
 ' But you would not be alone when you got there,' Mr. Denner 
 said meditatively. ' Now, with me it is different.' 
 
 1 Oh, quite different, quite different.' 
 
 ' Yes,' proceeded the other, ' I have very little companion- 
 ship. I go home and sit in my library all by myself. Sometimes 
 I get up and wander about the house, with only my cigar for 
 company.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Mr. Dale, ' that you can smoke wherever you 
 want in your house ? I often think of your loneliness ; coming 
 and going just as you please, quite independently.' 
 
 Mr. Denner gave him a sudden questioning look, and then 
 appeared to reproach himself for having misunderstood his 
 friend. 
 
 ' Yes just so just so. I knew you would appreciate it ; but 
 you can never know from experience, Henry, how a man feels 
 left quite to himself. You do not think of the independence ; it 
 is loneliness. You cannot know that.' 
 
 'No,' mnrmured Mr. Dale, 'perhaps not, but I can imagine 
 it.' 
 
 When they reached the iron gate of Dale House, they followed 
 the trim path across the lawn to the north side of the house, where 
 it ended in a little walk., three bricks wide, laid end to and, and so
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 115 
 
 damp with perpetual shade, they were slippery with green mould, 
 and had tufts of moss between them. 
 
 Mr. Dale's study was in a sort of half-basement ; one went 
 down two steps to reach the doorway, and the windows, set in 
 -thick stone walls, and almost hidden in a tangle of wistaria, were 
 just above the level of the path. 
 
 The two old men entered, Mr. Dale bending- his tall white 
 head a little ; and while the lawyer unwound a long blue muffler 
 from about hia throat, the host lighted a lamp, and, getting down 
 on his kneee, blew the dim embers in the rusty grate into a 
 flickering b/aze. Then he pulled a blackened crane from the 
 jamb, and hung on it a dinted brass kettle, so that he might 
 add some hot water to Mr. Denner's gin and sugar, and also 
 make himself a cup of tea. That done, he took off his over- 
 coat, throwing it across the mahogany arm of the horsehair sofa, 
 which was" piled with books and pamphlets, and whitened here 
 and there with ashes from his silver pipe ; then he knotted the 
 cord of his flowere^ dressing-gown about his waist, spread his 
 red silk handkerchief over his thin locks, and, placing his 
 feet comfortably upon the high fender, was ready for conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Mr. Denner, meanwhile, without waiting for the formality of 
 an invitation, went at once to a small corner closet, and 
 brought out a flat, dark bottle and an old silver cup, added some 
 sugar, and lastly, with a sparing hand, the hot water, stirring it 
 round and round with the one teaspoon which they shared between 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Dale had produced a battered caddy, and soon the fumes 
 of gin and tea mingled amicably together. 
 
 ' If I could always have such evenings as this,' Mr. Denner 
 thought, sipping the hot gin and water, and crossing his legs 
 comfortably, ' I should not have to think of something dif- 
 ferent.' 
 
 'Your wife would appreciate what I meant about loneliness,' 
 he said, going back to what was uppermost in his mind. 'A 
 house without a mistress at its head, Henry, is ah not what it 
 should be.' 
 
 The remark needed no reply : and Mr. Dale leaned back in his 
 leather chair, dreamily watching the blue smoke from his slender 
 pipe drift level for a moment, and then, on an unfelt draught, 
 draw up the chimney. 
 
 Mr Denner, resting his mug on one knee, began to stii the fire 
 gently. ' Yes, Henry,' he continued, ' I feel it more and more as 
 I gn>w older. 1 really need ah brightness and comfort in my 
 house. Yes, I need it. And even iJ I were not interested, as it 
 were, myself, I don't know but what my duty to Willie should 
 make me ah think of it.' 
 
 Mr. Dale was gazing at the fire. ' Think of what ? ' he said-
 
 ii6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Mr. Denner became very much embarrassed. 'Why, what 
 I was just observing, just speaking- of the need of comfort in 
 my house and my life, I might say. Less loneliness for 
 mp, Henry, and, in fact, a person a a female you under- 
 stand.' 
 
 Mr. Dale looked at him. 
 
 ' In fact, as I might say, a wife, Henry.' 
 
 Mr. Dale was at last aroused ; with his pipe between his lips, 
 A? clutched the lion's heads on the arm of his chair, and sat 
 /ooking at Mr. Denner in such horrified astonishment that the 
 little gentleman stumbled over any words, simply for the relief of 
 speaking. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, 'justjso, Henry, just so. I have been thinking 
 of it lately, perhaps for the last year ; yes I have been thinking 
 of it.' 
 
 Mr. Dale, still looking at him, made an inarticulate noise in his 
 throat. 
 
 Mr. Denner' s face began to show a faint dull red to his temples. 
 ' Ah yes I I have thought of it, as it were.' 
 
 'Denner,' said Mr. Dale solemnly, 'you're a fool.' 
 
 ' If you mean my age, Henry,' cried the other, his whole face 
 a dusky crimson, that sent the tears stinging into his little 
 brown eyes, ' I cannot say I think your surprise is ah 
 justified. It is not as though there was anything unsuitable 
 she they are quite my age. And for Willie's sake, I doubt if 
 it is not a a duty. And I am only sixty-one and a half, Henry. 
 You did not remember, perhaps, that I was so much younger than 
 you ?' 
 
 Mr. Dale pulled off his red handkerchief, and wiped his fore- 
 head ; after which he said quite violently, ' The devil ! ' 
 
 ' Oh,' remonstrated Mr. Denner, balancing his mug on his 
 knee, and lifting his hands deprecatingly, ' not such words, Henry 
 not such words ; we are speaking of ladies, Henry.' 
 
 Mr. Dale was silent. 
 
 'You have no idea,' the other continued, 'in your comfortable 
 house, with a good vife, who makes you perfectly happy, how 
 lonely a man is who lives as I do : and I can tell you, the older 
 he grows, the more he feels it. So, really, age is a reason for 
 considering it.' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of age,' said Mr. Dale feebly. 
 
 ' Well, then,' replied the other triumphantly, ' age Is the only 
 objection that could be urged. A man is happier and better for 
 fcmale influence ; and the dinners 1 have are really not not 
 what they should be, Henry. That would all be changed if I 
 had a ah wife.' 
 
 ' Denner/ said his friend, ' there are circumstances where a 
 dinner of herbs is more to be desired than a stalled ox, you will 
 remember.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 117 
 
 'That is just how I feel,' said the other eagerly, and too much 
 interested in his own anxieties to see Mr. Dale s point. ' Mary 
 is not altogether amiable.' 
 
 Again Mr. Dale was silent. 
 
 ' I knew you would seethe the desirability of it,' the lawyer 
 continued, the flush of embarrassment fading away, ' and so I 
 decided to ask your advice. I thought that, not only from your 
 own ah heart, but from the novels and tales you read, you would 
 be able to advise me in any matter of esteem.' 
 
 Mr. Dale groaned, and shook his head from side to side. 
 
 ' But, good Lord, Denner, books are one thing, life's another. 
 You can't live in a book, man.' 
 
 'Just so,' said Mr. Denner, 'just so; but I only want the 
 benefit of your experience in reading these tales of ah- 
 romance. You see, here is my trouble, Henry I cannot make up 
 my mind.' 
 
 'To do it ?' cried Mr. Dale with animation. 
 
 But Mr. Denner interrupted him with a polite gesture. 'No, I 
 shall certainly do it. I did not mean to mislead you. I shall 
 certainly do it, but I cannot make up my mind which.' 
 
 ' Which ? ' said Mr. Dale, vaguely. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the little gentleman, ' which. Of course you 
 know that I refer to the Misses Woodhouse. You must have 
 noticed my attentions of late, for I have shown a great deal of 
 attention to both ; it has been very marked. Yet, Henry, I can- 
 not tell which (both are such estimable persons) which I should 
 ah prefer. And knowing your experience, a married man 
 yourself, and your reading on such subjects novels are mostly 
 based upon esteem I felt sure you could advise me.' 
 
 A droll look came into Mr. Dale's face, but he did not speak. 
 
 Feeling that he had made a clean breast of it, and that the 
 responsibility of choice was shifted to his friend's shoulders, the 
 lawyer, taking a last draught from the silver mug, and setting it 
 down empty on the table, leaned comfortably back in his chair to 
 await the decisior 
 
 There was a long silence ; once Mr. Denner broke it by saying, 
 ' Of course, Henry, you see the importance of careful judgment,' 
 and then they were still again. 
 
 At last, Mr. Dale, with a long sigh, straightened up in his 
 chair. He lifted his white fluted china teacup, which had 
 queer little chintz-like buncnes of flowers over it and a worn gilt 
 handle, and took a pinch of tea from the caddy ; then, pouring 
 some boiling water over it, he set it on the hob to steep. 
 
 'Denner,' he said slowly, 'which advice do you want? 
 Whether to do it at all, or which lady to choose ? ' 
 
 'Which lady, of course,' answered Mr. Denner promptly. 
 ' There oan be but one opinion as to the first question.'
 
 ii8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Ah,' responded Mr. Dale; then, a moment afterwards, he 
 added, ' Well ' 
 
 Mr. Denner lookfd at his friend, with eyes shining with excite- 
 ment. 'It is very important to me, Henry,' he said, with a 
 faltering voice. ' You will keep that in mind, I am sure. They 
 are both so admirable, and yet there must be some choice. Miss 
 Deborah's housekeeping you know there's no such cooking in 
 Ashurst ; and she's\ery economical. But then, Miss Ruth is 
 artistic, and' her* a fine wavering blush crept over his little 
 face 'she is aV -pretty, Henry. And the money is equally 
 divided,' he adde-f', with a visible effort to return to practical 
 things. 
 
 ' I know. Yes, it's very puzzling. On the whole, Denner, I 
 do not see how I can advise you.' 
 
 Mr. Denner seemed to suffer a collapse. 
 
 ' Why, Henry,' he quavered, ' you must have an opinion ?' 
 
 ' No,' Mr. Dale answered thoughtfully, ' I cannot say that I 
 have. Now, I put it to you, Denner : how could I decide on the 
 relative merits of Miss Ruth and Miss Deborah, seeing that I 
 have no affection, only respect, for either of them ? Affection ! 
 that ought to be your guide. Which do you feel most affection 
 for ? ' 
 
 ' Why, really ' said Mr. Denner, ' really ' and he stopped to 
 think, looking hard at the seal ring on his left hand ' I am 
 afraid it is justrthe same, if you call it affection. You see that 
 doesn't help us.' 
 
 He had identified Mr. Dale's interest with his own anxiety, 
 and looked.wistfully at the older man, who seemed sunk in thought 
 and quite forgetful of his presence. Mr. Denner put one hand to 
 his lips and gave a little cough. Then he said : 
 
 ' One would think there would be a rule about such things, 
 some acknowledged method ; a proverb, for instance ; it would 
 simplify matters very much.' 
 
 ' True,' said Mr. Dale. 
 
 'Yes,' Mr. Denner added, 'you would think in such a general 
 thing as marriage there would be. Complications like this must 
 constantly arise. What if Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth had 
 another sister ? Just see how confused a man might be. Yes, 
 one would suppose the wisdom of experience would take the form 
 of an axiom. But it hasn't.' 
 
 He sighed deeply, and rose, for it was late, and the little fire 
 had burned out. 
 
 Mr. Dale bent forward, with his elbows on his lean knees, and 
 gently knocked the ashes from his silver pipe. Then he got up, 
 and, standing with his back to the cold grate, and the tails of his 
 flowered dressing-gown under each arm in a comfortable way, he 
 looked at the lawyer, with his head a little on one side, as though 
 he were about to speak. Mr. Denner noticed it.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 119 
 
 ' Ah, you cannot make any suggestion, Henry ? ' 
 
 '"Well,' said Mr. Dale, ' it seems to me I had a thought a 
 sort of proverb, you might say but it slips my memory.' 
 
 Mr. Denner, with his overcoat half on, stood quite still, and 
 trembled. 
 
 'It is something about how to make up your mind,' Mr. Dale 
 continued, very slowly ; ' let me see.' 
 
 'How to makeup your mind?' cried Mr. Denner. 'That's 
 just the thing ! I'm sure, that's just the thing ! And we cannot 
 but have the greatest confidence in proverbs. They are so 
 eminently trustworthy. They are the concentrated wisdom of 
 of the ages, as it were. Yes, I should be quite willing to 
 decide the matter by a proverb.' 
 
 He looked at Mr. Dale eagerly, but this especial piece of 
 wisdom still eluded the older man. 
 
 ' It begins,' said Mr. Dale, hesitating and fixing his eyes upon 
 the ceiling ' it begins let me see. ' When in doubt ' ah ' 
 
 'What is it?' gasped Mr. Denner. 'That has a familiar 
 sound, but I cannot seem to finish it. When in doubt, what ? ' 
 
 'Well,' answered his friend ruefully, ' it is not quite it does 
 not exactly apply. I am afraid it won't help us out. You know 
 the rest. It is merely * take the trick ' 1 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE morning after John Ward's return from his two weeks' 
 absence at General Assembly, he found it hard to settle down to 
 work. Not that there was very much to talk about, for daily 
 letters had told of daily doings, but to be with Helen again was 
 an absorbing joy. She followed him about as he put his papers 
 away, and he, in turn, came out into the garden to watch her 
 while she showed Alfaretta where to plant some flower-seeds. 
 
 ' Come over here,' Helen said, ' and see these violets under the 
 big elm! I have been so in hopes that they would blossom in time 
 to welcome you. Let's pick some for the study.' 
 
 They pushed the shining wet leaves aside, and found the 
 flowers, and then John witched his wife put them in a shallow 
 dish on his table. 
 
 ' It is weak in me to come in here,' Helen said, smiling. ' I 
 know you ought to work, yet here I sit.' 
 
 ' This is Thursday,' he answered, 'and I wrote my sermon on 
 the train yesterday, so after I have copied the reports I can 
 afford to be lazy. 1 cannot bear to have you out of my sight ! ' 
 He drew her brown head down on his shoulder, and stroked 
 her face softly. 'When I'm away from you, Helen, I seem onlv 
 half alive.'
 
 lao JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' And in three weeks I have to go to Ashurst,' she said rue- 
 fully. ' It is too bad I couldn't have gone while you were at 
 General Assembly, but it wouldn't have been right for us both 
 to be away from the parsonage at once.' 
 
 'No. Well, we have the three weeks yet. Yes, I must send 
 
 Siu away, and get at the reports. How you brighten this room, 
 elen ! I think it must be the sunshine that seems caught in 
 your hair. It gleams like bronze oak-leaves in October.' 
 
 1 Love has done wonderful things for your eyes, John,' she said, 
 smiling, as she left him. 
 
 She put on her heavy gloves and brought her trowel from under 
 the front porch, and she and the maid began to dig up the fresh, 
 damp earth on the sunny side of the house. 
 
 4 We'll have some sweet-peas here, Alfaretta,' she said cheerily, 
 4 and I think it would be nice to let the nasturtiums run over that 
 log, don't you ? And you must plant these morning-glory seeds 
 around the kitchen windows." Suddenly she noticed that Alfa- 
 retta, instead of listening, was gazing down the road, and her 
 round freckled face flushing hotly. 
 
 4 He shan't come in,' she muttered ' he shan't come in ! ' and 
 dropping the hammer, and the box of tacks, and the big ball of 
 twine, she hurried to the gate, her rough hands clinched into two 
 sturdy fists. 
 
 Helen looked towards the road, and saw Mr. Dean come stiffly 
 up to the gate, for lumbago was not altogether a memory. Al- 
 faretta reached it as he did, and as she stooped to lean her elbows 
 on its top bar she slipped the latch inside. 
 
 4 Alfaretta,' said her father pompously, ' open the gate, if you 
 please.' As he spoke, he rapped upon it with his heavy stick, and 
 the little latch clattered and shook. 
 
 4 Were you coming to see me, pa ? ' the girl asked nervously. 
 4 1 I'm busy this morning. It's my night out, so I'll see you 
 this evenin'.' 
 
 4 Yes, I'll see you, returned Mr. Dean, significantly; 4 but not 
 now. I didn't come to see you now ; I'm here to see the preacher, 
 Alfaretta. Come, don't keep me out here in the sun,' he added 
 impatiently, shaking the gate again. 
 
 4 1 guess he's too busy to see you this morning he's awful 
 busy.' 
 
 ' I guess he's not too busy to see me,' said the elder. 
 
 Alfaretta' s face was white now, but she still stood barring the 
 gateway. ' Well, you can't see him, anyhow." Her voice had 
 begun to tremble, and Mrs. Ward, who had joined them, said, 
 with a surprised look : 
 
 ' Why, what do you mean, Alfaretta ? Of course, Mr. Ward 
 will see your father. I hope your lumbago is better, Elder 
 Dean ? '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 121 
 
 Mr. Dean did not notice her question. ' Certainly he will see 
 me. Come, now, open the gato ; be spry.' 
 
 'You can't see him ! ' cried Alfaretta, bursting into tears. ' I 
 say he won't see you, so there ! ' 
 
 Her mistress looked at her in astonishment ; but her father put 
 his big hand over the gate, and, wrenching the little latch open, 
 strode up to the front door of the parsonage. 
 
 Helen and her maid looked at each other ; Alfaretta's face 
 working convulsively to keep back the tears, and her mistress's 
 eyes full of disapproval. 
 
 ' Why did you say that, Alfaretta ?' she said. ' It was not true ; 
 you knew Mr. Ward could see your father.' Then she turned back 
 to her planting. 
 
 Alfaretta followed her, and, kneeling down by the border, 
 began to grub at the intruding blades of grass, stopping- to put 
 her hand up to her eyes once in a while, which made her face 
 singularly streaked and muddy. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Alfaretta ? ' Helen asked, at last, coldly. 
 She did not mean to be unkind, but she was troubled at the girl's 
 untruthfulness. 
 
 Alfaretta wailed. 
 
 'Tell me,' Helen said, putting her hand lightly on her shoulder. 
 ' Are you crying because you said what was not true ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tain't that ! ' sobbed Alfaretta. 
 
 'I wish, then, you would either stop, or go into the house.' 
 Helen's voice was stern, and Alfaretta looked at her with reproach- 
 ful eyes; then, covering her face with her hands, she rocked 
 backwards and forwards, and wept without restraint. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I'm afraid he's going to take me away from here !' 
 
 ' Take you away ? ' Helen said surprised. ' Why ? Is the work 
 too hard ? ' 
 
 'No no, ma'am,' Alfaretta answered, choking. 
 
 ' I'll go and see at once,' Helen said. 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' Alfaretta cried, catching her mistress's skirt with 
 grimy hands ; ' don't go it won't do any good.' 
 
 ' Don't be foolish,' Helen remonstrated, smiling ; ' of course, I 
 must speak to him. If your father thinks there is too much work, 
 he must tell me, and I will arrange it differently.' 
 
 She stooped, and took the hem of her cambric gown from be- 
 tween the girl' a hngers, and then went quickly into the house. 
 
 She rapped lightly at the study door. 'John, I must come in a 
 moment, please.' 
 
 She heard a chair pushed back, and John's footstep upon the 
 floor. He opened the door, and stood looking at her with strange, 
 unseeing eyes. 
 
 'Go away, Helen,' he said hoarsely, without waiting for her to 
 speak, for she was dumb with astonishment at his face ' go away, 
 my darling.'
 
 i JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 He put out one hand as if to push her back, and closed the door, 
 and she heard the bolt pushed. She stood a moment staring at 
 the blank of the locked door. What could it mean ? Alfaretta's 
 misery and morals were forgotten ; something troubled John 
 she had no thought for anything else. She turned away as though 
 in a dream, and began absently to take off her garden-hat. John 
 was in some distress. She went upstairs to her bedroom, and 
 tried to keep busy with sewing until she could go to him ; but 
 she was almost unconscious of what she did. How long, how very 
 long, the morning was ! 
 
 John had looked up from his writing to see Mr. Dean standing 
 in the doorway. 
 
 4 Good-morning,' he said cordially, as he rose to give his hand 
 to his elder. ' I am glad to see you. How have things gone since 
 I have been away ? ' 
 
 But Mr. Dean seemed to have nothing special to report, and 
 let the preacher tell him of General Assembly, while, embarrassed 
 and very uncomfortable, he sat twisting his hat round and round 
 in his big, rough hands. 
 
 A bar of sunshine from the south window crept across the 
 floor, and touched the low dish of violets on the table, and 
 then John's face, making a sudden golden glint in his gentle dark 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Mr. Ward,' the elder said, at last, opening his mouth once or 
 twice before he began to speak, ' I have a distress on my mind. 
 I think the Spirit of the Lord's driven me to tell you of it.' 
 
 ' Are you in any trouble, my friend ? ' The tired look which 
 had fallen upon John's face as he put down his pen was gone in 
 a moment. ' I am glad, then, I was not away any longer. I trust 
 sickness has not come to your family ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' answered the other solemnly, ' not sickness of body. 
 What does the Good Book say to the Christian ? ' He shall give 
 His angels charge over thee.' No, I'm mercifully preserved 
 from sickness; for, as for me and my house, we serve the Lord. 
 My lumbago was bad while you was away; but it's better, I'rn 
 thankful to say. Sickness of the soul, Mr. Ward that is what is 
 truly awful.' 
 
 ' I hope you are not feeling the power of Satan in doubts ? ' 
 John asked anxiously. ' Such sickness of the soul is indeed worse 
 than any which Qan come to the body.' 
 
 ' No,' replied the elder ; ' no, my feet are fixed I know whom 
 I have believed. I have entered into the hidden things of God. 
 I am not afraid of doubt, ever. Yet what a fearful thing doubt 
 is, Brother Ward ! ' 
 
 4 It is, indeed,' John replied humbly. 4 Through the mercy of
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 123 
 
 God, I have never known its temptation. He has kept me from 
 ever questioning truth.' 
 
 'What a terrible thing it would be,' said Mr. Dean, beginning 
 to forget his awkwardness, ' if doubt was to grow up in any heart, 
 or in any family, or in any church ! I've sometimes wondered if, 
 of late, you had given us enough sound doctrine in the pulpit, sir. 
 The milk of the Word we can get out of the Bible for ourselves ; 
 but doctrines, they ain't to be found in Holy Writ as they'd ought 
 to be preached.' 
 
 John looked troubled. He knew the rebuke was merited. ' I 
 have feared my sermons were, as you say, scarcely doctrinal 
 enough. Yet I have instructed you these six years in points of 
 faith, and I felt it was perhaps wiser to turn more to the tender- 
 ness of God as it is in Christ. And I cannot agree with you that 
 the doctrines are not in the Bible, Mr. Dean.' 
 
 ' Well,' the elder admitted, ' of course. But not so he that 
 runs may read, or that the wayfaring man will not err therein. 
 There is some folks as would take ' God is love ' out of the Good 
 Book, and forget ' Our God is a consuming fire.' ' 
 
 John bent his head on his hand for a moment, and drove his 
 mind back to his old arguments for silence. Neither of the men 
 spoke for a little while, and then John said, still without raising 
 his head : 
 
 1 Do you feel that this neglect of mine has been of injury to 
 any soul ? It is your duty to tell me.' 
 
 It was here that Helen's knock came, and when John had taken 
 his seat again he looked his accuser straight in the eyes. 
 
 ' Do you ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Sir,' answered the elder, ' I can't say. I ain't heard that it 
 has and yet I'm fearful. Yet I didn't come to reproach you 
 for that. You have your reasons for doing as you did, no doubt. 
 But what I did come to do, preacher, was to warn you that there 
 was a creepin' evil in the church ; and we need strong doctrine 
 now, if we ain't before. And I came the quicker to tell you, 
 sir, because it's fastened on my own household. Yes, on my own 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' Your own child ? ' John said. ' You have nothing to fear for 
 Alfaretta ; she is a very good, steady girl.' 
 
 'She's good enough and she's steady enough,' returned Mr. 
 Dean, shaking his head; 'and oh, Mr. Ward, when she joined 
 the church, two years ago, there wasn't anybody ( joinin' on pro- 
 fession) better grounded in the faith than she was. She knew 
 her catechism through and through, and she never asked a ques- 
 tion, or had a doubt about it in her life. But now now it's 
 different ! ' 
 
 ' Do you mean,' John asked, 'that her faith is shaken that 
 she has doubts? Such times are apt to come to very young 
 Christians, though they are conscious of no insincerity, aad the
 
 I2 4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 doubts are but superficial. Has she such doubts ? ' 
 
 ' She has, sir, she has,' cried the elder, ' and it breaks my heart 
 to see my child given over to the Evil One ! ' 
 
 ' No, no,' John said tenderly ; ' if she is one of the elect and 
 we have reason to hope she is she will persevere. Remember, 
 for your comfort, the perseverance of the saints. But how has 
 this come about ? Is it through any influence ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, it is,' said the elder quickly. 
 
 ' What is the especial doubt ? ' John asked. 
 
 ' It is her views of hell that distress me,' answered the elder. 
 John looked absently beyond him, with eyes which saw, not 
 Alfaretta, but Helen. 
 
 'That is very serious,' he said slowly. 
 
 ' 'Tain't natural to her,' protested the elder. ' She was ground- 
 ed on hell ; she's been taught better. It's the influence she's 
 been under, preacher.' 
 
 ' Surely it cannot be anyone in our church,' John said thought- 
 fully. ' I can think of too many who are weak in grace and good 
 works, but none who doubt the faith.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied the elder, 'yes, it is in our church. That's 
 why I came to beg you to teach sound doctrine, especially the 
 doctrine of everlasting punishment. I could ha' dealt with 
 Alfaretta myself, and I'll bring her round, you can depend on 
 that ; but it is for the church I'm askin' you, and fer that person 
 that's unsettled Alfaretta. Convert her, save her. It is a woman, 
 sir, a member (by letter, Brother Ward) of our church, and she's 
 spreadin' nets of eternal ruin for our youth, and I came to say 
 she ought to be dealt with ; the Session ought to take notice of 
 it. The elders have been speakin' of it while you was away ; 
 and we don't see no way out of it, for her own soul's sake let 
 alone other people's souls than to bring her before the Session. 
 If we can't convert her to truth, leastways she'll be disciplined 
 to silence. 
 
 That subtile distinction which John Ward had made between 
 his love and his life was never more apparent than now. Though 
 his elder's words brought him the keenest consciousness of his 
 wife's unbelief, he never for an instant thought of her as the 
 person whose influence in the church was to be feared. His church 
 and his wife were to be absolutely separate for such identification 
 to be possible. 
 
 ' And,' Mr. Dean added, his metallic voice involuntarily 
 softening, 'our feelings, Mr. Ward, mustn't interfere with it; 
 they mustn't make us unkind to her soul by slightin' her best good.' 
 
 ' No,' John said, still absently, and scarcely listening to his 
 elder ' no, of course not. But have you seen her, and talked 
 with her, and tried to lead her to the truth ? That should be 
 done with the tenderest patience before anything so extreme as 
 Sessiooiog.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. i5 
 
 'We ain't,' the elder answered significantly, 'but I make no 
 doubt she's been reasoned with and prayed with.' 
 
 ' Why, I have not spoken to her,' John said, bewildered ; 'but 
 you have not told me who it is, yet.' 
 
 'Mr. Ward,' said the other solemnly, 'if you ain't spoke to 
 her, you've neglected your duty ; and if you do'n't give her poor 
 soul a chance for salvation by bringing- her to the Session, you 
 are neglectin' your duty still more. Your church, sir, and the 
 everlastin' happiness of her soul, demand that this disease of 
 unbelief should be rooted out. Yes, Brother Ward, if the Jonah 
 in a church was our nearest and dearest and it don't make no 
 odds the ship should be saved ! ' 
 
 They both rose : a terrible look was dawning in John Ward's 
 face, and seeing it, the elder's voice sunk to a hurried whisper as 
 he spoke the last words. 
 
 ' Who is this woman ? ' the preacher said hoarsely. 
 
 ' Sir sir' the elder cried, backing towards the door and 
 raising his hands in front of him, ' don't look so don't look 
 so, sir ! ' 
 
 ' Who ? ' demanded the other. 
 
 ' I spoke fer the sake of Alfaretta's soul, and fer the sake of 
 them that's heard her say them things about Tom Davis, 
 provin' there wasn't any punishment for sinners. Don't look 
 so, preacher ! ' 
 
 ' Tell me her name ! ' 
 
 ' Her name her name ? Oh, you know it, sir, you know it 
 it's your wife, preacher ! ' 
 
 John Ward sprang at the cowering figure of the big elder, and 
 clinched his trembling hands on the man's shoulders with an 
 inarticulate cry. 
 
 ' My wife ! ' he said, between his teeth. ' How dare you speak 
 her name ! ' He stopped struggling for breath. 
 
 ' My duty ! ' gasped the elder, trying to loosen the trembling 
 fingers ' to her and you and the church you've starved and 
 neglected, Brother Ward ! ' 
 
 John blenched. Mr. Dean saw his advantage. 'You know 
 your vows when you were ordained here six years ago: do you 
 keep them ? Do you feed your people with spiritual food, or 
 will you neglect them for your wife's sake, and let her example 
 send the souls in your care to endless ruin ? ' 
 
 John had loosened his hold on the elder, and was leaning 
 against the wall, his head bowed upon his breast and his hands 
 knotted together. A passion of horrified grief swept across his 
 face; he seemed unconscious of the elder's presence. Mr. 
 Dean looked at him, not certain what to do or say ; he had 
 quite forgotten Alfaretta's 'notice.' At last the preacher raised 
 bis head. 
 
 ' You have said enough,' he said, in a low voice ; ' now go,
 
 ii6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 and he pointed with a shaking- finger to the door. ' Go ! ' he 
 repeated. 
 
 The elder hesitated, then slowly put on his hat and stumbled 
 from the room. John did not notice his outstretched hand, but 
 followed him blindly to the door, and locked it after him. 
 
 The full blaze of sunshine flooded the room with its pitiless 
 mirth ; it was wilting- the dish of violets, and he moved it to the 
 shady end of the table. 
 
 Alfaretta, peering- out of her attic window, and wiping her 
 eyes on the corner of the dimity curtain which hid her, saw the 
 elder walk rut of the parsonage and through the little gateway, 
 with shame written on his drooping shoulders and in his hurried, 
 shambling steps. He never once looked back. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ALMOST before Elder Dean had left the threshold, Helen stood 
 at the bolted door. She turned the knob gently while she 
 knocked. 
 
 'John,' she said anxiously 'John dear!' But there was no 
 answer. 
 
 ' John ! ' she said again, a thread of fear in her voice. ' What 
 is the matter? Are you ill, dearest ? Please let me in ! ' 
 
 Only the rustle of the wind outside and the flickering shadows 
 across the hall answered. She shook the door slightly, and then 
 listened. 'John, John!' she called again, and as she heard a 
 long drawn breath inside the closed room she leaned against the 
 wall, faint with a fright she had not realized. She heard a slow 
 footstep upon the floor, that stopped on the other side of the door. 
 
 'Helen,' her husband said, in a voice she scarcely knew, 'I 
 want to be alone. I am not ill, but I must be undisturbed. Will 
 you go away, please ? ' 
 
 'Let me in just one moment, darling,' she pleaded, still 
 nervously turning the knob. 'I won't disturb you, but it terrifies 
 me to be shut out in this way. Please let me just see you, and 
 then I will go right away.' 
 
 'No,' he answered, ' I cannot see you. I do not want to see 
 you, Helen. I must be alone just now.' 
 
 1 You are quite sure you are not ill ? ' she insisted. 
 
 ' Quite sure.' 
 
 'Well,' she said reluctantly, ' I'll go, but call me just as soon 
 as I can come, will you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, ' but do not come until I do call you.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 127 
 
 She heard him walk back to his study table, and then silence 
 seemed to fall like a shadow on her heart. She was more bewildered 
 than before. John was in trouble, and she could not help 
 him. Nevertheless, she did not speak again ; she was one of 
 those unusual women who are content to wait until the moment 
 it is needed to give their sympathy or tenderness. So she went 
 to her own room, and sat wistfully looking out the at sweet spring 
 day ; she could not read while this anxiety filled her mind, and 
 her hands were idle in her lap. She did not even summon John 
 to luncheon, knowing he would come if he saw fit ; for herself, 
 she could not eat. It was almost five, when she heard John 
 push his chair back (she was sitting on the lowest step of the 
 staircase, which ended at the study-door, leaning her head 
 against the frame), and again her ear caught the heavy, long- 
 drawn sigh. Her suspense was to end. 
 
 She rose, her hands pressed hard together to check their trem- 
 bling ; she bit her lip lest she might speak and disturb him one 
 moment before he was ready to hear her. 
 
 He pushed back the bolt, and slowly opened the door and 
 looked at her. All the words of love and anxiety died on her 
 lips. 
 
 1 John,' she whispered ' oh, my dear, what is it ? ' - 
 
 He came out, and putting his hands on her shoulders, looked 
 down at her with terrible, unsmiling eyes. ' Helen,' he said, 
 ' I am grieved to have distressed you so, but it had to be. I had 
 to be alone. I am in much trouble. No,' laying his hand 
 gently on her lips ; ' listen to me, dearest. I am in great dis- 
 tress of soul ; and just now, just for a few days, I must bear it 
 alone.' 
 
 Helen felt a momentary sense of relief. Distress of soul? 
 that meant some spiritual anxiety, and it had not the awfulness 
 to her which a more tangible trouble, such as sickness, would 
 have. 
 
 4 What is it, John ? Tell me ? ' she said, looking at him with 
 overflowing love, but without an understanding sympathy ; it was 
 more that feeling which belongs to strong women, of maternal 
 tenderness for the men they love, quite apart from an intellectual 
 appreciation of the trouble. 
 
 John shook his head. ' I must bear it alone, Helen. Do noS 
 ask me what it is ; I cannot tell you yet.' 
 
 ' You cannot tell me ? Oh, John, your sorrow belongs to me ; 
 don't shut me out ; tell me, dear, and let me help you.' 
 
 'You cannot help me,' he answered wearily; 'only trust me 
 when I say it is best for me not to tell you now; you shall know 
 all there is to know later. Be patient just a few days until after 
 the Sabbath. Oh, bear with me I am in great sorrow, Helen ; 
 help me with silence.' 
 
 She put her arms around him, and in her caressing voice, with 
 
 I
 
 i 2 8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 that deep note in it, she said, ' It shall be just as you say, darling. 
 I won't ask you another question, but I'm ready to hear whenever 
 you want to tell me.' 
 
 He looked at her with haggard eyes, but did not answer. Then 
 she drew him out into the fresh coolness of the garden, and tried 
 to bring some brightness into his face by talking of small house- 
 hold happenings, and how she had missed him during his two 
 week's absence, and what plans she had for the next week. But 
 no smile touched his white lips, or banished the absent look in his 
 eyes. After tea, during which his silence had not been broken, 
 he turned to go into his study. 
 
 ' Oh, you are not going to work to-night ? ' Helen cried. ' Don't 
 leave me alone again ! ' 
 
 * He looked at her with a sudden wistfulness. ' I I must,' he 
 said, his voice so changed it gave her a shock of pain. ' I must 
 work on my sermon.' 
 
 ' I thought you had written it,' she said ; ' and you are so tired 
 do wait until to-morrow.' 
 
 4 1 am not going to use the sermon I prepared,' he answered, ' I 
 have decided to preach more directly on foreign missions. You 
 know I exchange with. Mr. Grier, of Chester, on the Sabbath ; 
 and he will preach to our church on the attitude of Assembly to- 
 wards missions. 1 had intended to give a more general sermon 
 to his people, but I have decided otherwise.' 
 
 Helen was surprised at so long an explanation ; John's sermons 
 were generally ignored by both, but for different reasons. She 
 followed him into the study, and when she had lighted his lamp 
 he kissed her, saying soft/y, ' May God bless you, Helen ! ' and 
 then he shut her gently from the room. 
 
 ' Don't lock the door, John,' she said. ' I won't come in, but 
 don't lock it.' Her lip almost trembled as she spoke. 
 
 ' No no,' he said tenderly. ' Oh, Helen, I have made you 
 suffer ! ' 
 
 She was quick to protect him. ' No, I was only lonely; but 
 you won't lock it ! ' 
 
 He did not, but poor Helen wandered forlornly about the 
 darkened house, an indefinable dread chasing away the relief 
 which had come when her husband spoke of spiritual trouble ; she 
 was glad, for the mere humanness of it, to hear Thaddeus and 
 Alfaretta talking in the kitchen. 
 
 The next day, and the next, dragged slowly by. When John 
 was not at his writing-table, he was making those pastoral calls 
 which took so much time and strength, which Helen always felt 
 were unnecessary. Once, seeing her standing leaning her forehead 
 against the window and looking out sadly into the rainy garden, ' 
 he came up to her and took her in his arms, holding her silently 
 to his heart. That cheered and lightened her, and somehow, 
 when Sunday moruing dawned, full c/f the freshness of the past
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 129 
 
 rain and the present wind and sunshine, she felt the gloom of the 
 last three days lifted a little. True, there was the unknown 
 sorrow in her heart, but love was there, too. She was almost 
 happy, without knowing- it. 
 
 They were to go on horseback^ for Chester was eight miles off, 
 and the thought of a ride in this sparkling mountain air brought 
 a glow to her cheek, which had been pale the last few days. They 
 started early. The sun seemed to tip the great green bowl of the 
 valley, making every leaf shine and glisten ; the road wound 
 among the circling hills, which were dark with sombre pines, 
 lightened here and there by the fresh greenness of ash or 
 chestnut; in some places the horse's hoofs made a velvety sound 
 on the fallen catkins. A brook followed their path, whispering" 
 and chattering, or hiding away under overhanging bushes, and 
 then laughing sharply out into the sunshine again. The wind 
 was fresh and fickle ; sometimes twisting the weeds and flowers 
 at the wayside, or sending a dash of her last night's raindrops 
 into their faces from the low branches of the trees, and all the 
 while making cloud shadows scud over the fresh-ploughed fields, 
 and up and across the blue, distant hills. 
 
 John rested his hand on her bridle, as she stroked her horse's 
 mane. ' How the wind has blown your hair from under your 
 hat ! ' he said. 
 
 She put her gauntleted hand up to smooth it. 
 
 ' Don't,' he said, ' it's so pretty; it looks like little tendrils that 
 have caught the sun.' 
 
 Helen laughed, and then looked at him anxiously; the sunshine 
 brought out the worn lines in his face. ' You work too hard, 
 dearest : it worries me.' 
 
 ' I have never worked at all ! ' he cried, with a sudden passion 
 of pain in his voice. ' Oh, my wasted life, Helen my life that 
 has wronged and cheated you ! ' 
 
 ' John ! ' she said, almost frightened. Yet it was characteristic 
 that she should think this was only a symptom of over-work 
 and bodily weariness. And when at last they reached the church 
 in Chester, and John lifted her from the saddle, the anxiety had 
 come again, and all the joy of the summer morning had left her 
 face. They fastened their horses to one of the big chestnuts 
 which stood in a stately row in front of the little white church, 
 and then Helen went inside, and found a seat by one of the open 
 windows ; she secretly pushed the long inside shutter, with its 
 drab slats turned down, halfway open, so that she might look out 
 across the burying-ground, where the high blossoming grass 
 nodded and waved over the sunken graves. 
 
 John had followed her, and folded a coat over the back of 
 the pew. He gave her a long, yearning look, but did not speak. 
 Then he turned, and walked slowly up the aisle, with reverently 
 bent head. 
 
 .-><''
 
 130 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 At the first hymn the congregation turned and faced the choir. 
 Helen, with the shadows of the leaves playing across her hymn- 
 book, leaned against the high back of the pew behind her, and 
 sang in a strong, sweet voice, rejoicing in the rolling old tune of 
 'Greenland's icy mountains.' She could see the distant lines of 
 the hills, and now and then between the branches of the trees 
 would come the flash and ripple f the brown river ; and through 
 the open door, which made a frame for the leaves and sky, she 
 caught sight of the row of horses pounding and switching 
 under the chestnuts, and those backsliders outside, who found it 
 necessary to ' see to the beasts ' rather than attend their religious 
 privileges. But there were not very many of these, for Mr. 
 Ward's fame as a preacher had spread through all the villages 
 near Lockhaven. 
 
 Helen, watching John while he read the chapter from the 
 Bible, thought anxiously how tired and worn his face looked, 
 and so thinking, and looking out into the dancing leaves, the 
 short prayer, and the long prayer, and the hymn before the 
 sermon passed, and she scarcely heard them. Then came the 
 rustle of preparation for listening. The men shuffled about in 
 their seats, and crossed their legs ; the women settled their bon- 
 net-strings, and gave the little children a peppermint-drop, and 
 the larger children a hymn-book to read. There were the usual 
 rustling and whispering in the choir, and the creaking footsteps 
 of the one or two who entered shamefacedly, as though they 
 would explain that the horses had detained them. Then the 
 church was very still. 
 
 John Ward rose, and spread his manuscript out upon the velvet 
 cushion of the white pulpit. 
 
 'You will find my text,' he said, 'in the sixth chapter of 
 Romans, the twenty-first verse : " The end of those things is 
 death." 
 
 It had been announced that his sermon was to be upon foreign 
 missions, and the people waited patiently while the preacher 
 briefly told them what had been accomplished by the Presbyterian 
 Church during the last year, and describing its methods of work, 
 showed what it proposed to do in the future. 
 
 'That's just a-tunin' up he'll set the heathen dancing pretty 
 soon ; you see ! ' someone whispered behind Helen ; and then 
 there was a giggle and ' hush-sh,' as Mr Ward began to say that 
 foreign missions were inevitable wherever the sentiment of pity 
 found room in a human heart, because the guilt of those in the 
 darkness of unbelief, without God, without hope, would certainly 
 doom them to eternal misery ; and this was a thought so dark and 
 awful, men could not go their way, one to his farm, and another 
 to his merchandise, and leave them to perish. 
 
 The simply and unquestioning conviction with which the preacher 
 began to prove to his congregation that the heathen were guilty,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 131 
 
 because Adam, their federal head and representative, had sinned, 
 perhaps hid from them the cruelty with which he credited the 
 Deity. No one thought of disputing his statement that the wrath 
 of God rested upon all unconverted souls, and that it would, 
 unless they burst from their darkness into the glorious light of 
 revealed truth, sink them to hell. 
 
 Some of the older Christians nodded their heads comfortably 
 at this, and looked keenly at the sinners of their own families, 
 trusting that they would be awakened to their danger by these 
 trumpet-blasts of doctrine. To such hearers, it was unneces- 
 sary that John Ward should insist upon the worthlessness of 
 natural religion, begging them remember that for these heathen, 
 as well as for more favored souls, Christ's was the only name 
 given under heaven whereby men might be saved, and appealing 
 to God's people, as custodians of the mercies of Christ, to stretch 
 their hands out into the darkness to these blind, stumbling, 
 doomed brothers. He bade them be quick to answer that cry 
 of ' Come and help us ! ' and to listen to that deeper voice 
 beneath the wail of despair, which said, ' Inasmuch as ye have 
 done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done 
 it unto Me.' 
 
 The possibility of being saved without a knowledge of Christ 
 remained, he said, after eighteen hundred years, a possibility 
 illustrated by no example ; and we could only stand in the shadow 
 of this terrible fact, knowing that millions and millions of souls 
 were living without the Gospel, the only source of life, and dying 
 without hope, and pray God for the spirit and the means to help 
 them. 
 
 Link by link he lengthened the chain of logic till it reached to 
 the deepest hell. He showed how blasphemous was the cry that 
 men must be saved, if for lack of opportunity they knew not 
 Christ ; that God would not damn the soul that had had no 
 chance to accept salvation. It had had the chance of salva- 
 tion in Adam, and had lost it, and was therefore condemned. 
 To the preacher this punishment of the helpless heathen seemed 
 only just. 
 
 ' Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right ? ' he cried, and he 
 stopped to suppose, for the sake of argument, that Adam had 
 not sinned ; surely no one would have disputed the justice of 
 receiving the blessings which his godliness would have 
 entailed. Then he 'jegan to prove the right of the potter over 
 the clay. He had forgotten his congregation ; the horror of the 
 damnation of the heathen was lost in the fear that one soul 
 should perish. He saw only Helen; she was in danger, she 
 was far from God, but yet the price of admission to heaven 
 could not be altered, though his heart broke for longing that 
 she should be saved; the requirements of the Gospel had not
 
 ij 2 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 softened, the decrees of Omnipotence were as unchangeable as 
 the eternal past. 
 
 His words, glowing with his love and grief, were only for her. 
 The thunders of God's justice shook his soul, while he offered her 
 the infinite mercy of Christ. But he did not shrink from 
 acknowledging that that mercy was only for those who would 
 accept it, nor presume to dictate to God, that all sinners 
 should be saved, forced into salvation, without accepting His 
 conditions. 
 
 'What right,' he said, 'have we to expect that mercy should 
 exist at all ? What madness, then, to think He will depart 
 from the course He has laid out for Himself, and save without 
 condition those who are justly condemned ? Yet justice is 
 satisfied, for Christ has died. O Soul, accept that sacrifice ! ' 
 He had come to the edge of the pulpit, one pale hand clenched 
 upon the heavy cover of the Bible, and the other stretched 
 tremblingly out ; his anxious, grieving eyes looked over the 
 solemn, upturned faces of his listeners, and sought Helen, sit- 
 ting in the dusky shadow by the open window, her face a little 
 averted, and her firm, sweet lips set in a line which was almost 
 stern. 
 
 Some of the women were crying ; an exhaltation purely hyster- 
 ical made them feel themselves lost sinners ; they thrilled at John's 
 voice, as though his words touched some strained chord in their 
 placid and virtuous lives. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, ' stand with me to-day under the pierced 
 hands and bleeding side of Infinite Mercy ; look up into that face 
 of Divine compassion and ineffable tenderness, and know that 
 this blood-stained cross proclaims to all the centuries death 
 suffered for the sin of the world for your sin and mine. 
 Can you turn and go away to outer darkness, to wander through 
 the shadows of eternity, away from God, away from hope, away 
 from love ? Oh, come, while still those arms are open to you ; 
 come, before the day of grace has darkened into night ; come, 
 before relentless Justice bars the way with a flaming sword. O 
 Soul, Christ waits ! ' 
 
 He stood a moment, leaning forward, his hands clasped 
 upon the big Bible, and his face full of trembling and passionate 
 pleading. Then he said, with a long, indrawn breath, ' Let us 
 pray ! ' 
 
 The people rose, and stood with bowed heads through the 
 short, eager, earnest prayer. Then the preacher gave out the 
 hymn, and there was a rustle of turning to face the choir. 
 The quaint, doleful tune of Windham wailed and sobbed through 
 the words : 
 
 ' The burden of our weighty guilt 
 Would sink us down to flames ; 
 And threatening vengeance rolls above, 
 To crush our feeble frames ! '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 133 
 
 The choir sang with cheerful heartiness ; it was of relief from 
 the tension of the sermon, a reaction to life and hope, and healthy 
 humanness after these shadows of death. It all seemed part of a 
 dream to Helen : the two happy-faced girls standing in the chnir^ 
 'with bunches of apple-blossoms in the belts of their fresh calico 
 dresses, and the three young farmers who held the green singing- 
 books open, all singing heartily together : 
 
 ' 'Tis boundless, 'tis amazing love, 
 That bears us up from hell ! ' 
 
 Helen watched them with fascinated curiosity ; she wondered 
 if they could believe what they had just heard. Surely not ; or 
 how could they know a moment's happiness, or even live ! 
 
 After the benediction had been pronounced she walked absently 
 down the aisle and went at once to her horse under the flickering 
 shadows of the chestnuts. Here she waited for John, one hand 
 twisted in the gray's mane, and with the other switching at the 
 tall grass with her riding-whip. Only a few of the people knew 
 her, but these came to speak of the sermon. One woman peered 
 at her curiously from under her big Shaker bonnet. The stories 
 of Mr. Ward's wife's unbelief had travelled out from Lockhaven. 
 ' Wonderful how some folks could stand against such doctrine ! ' 
 she said; 'and yet they must know it's a sin not to believe in 
 everlasting punishment. I believe it's a mortal sin, don't you, 
 Mrs. Ward ? ' 
 
 ' No,' Helen said quietly. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THEY rode quite silently to the house of the minister with whom 
 John had exchanged, where they were to dine ; after that, the 
 preacher was to go back to the church for the afternoon ser- 
 mon. 
 
 Mrs. Grier, a spare, anxious-looking woman, with a tight friz 
 of hair about her temples, which were thin and shining, met them 
 at the door. She had hurried home to ' see to things,' and be 
 ready to welcome her guests. John was ushered at once into her 
 husband's study, a poor little room, with even fewer books than 
 Mr. Ward's own, while Helen she took to the spare chamber, 
 where she had thoughtfully provided a cambric dress for her, 
 for the day had grown very warm, and the riding-habit was 
 heavy. 
 
 She sat down in a splint racking-chair, and watched her guest 
 ^brush out her length of shifting bronze hair, and twist it in a firm 
 coil low on her neck.
 
 134 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 4 It was a good gathering,' she said, 'people came from a 
 distance to hear Mr. Ward. The folks at Lockhaven are favored 
 to listen to such preaching.' 
 
 ' No doubt they feel favored to have Mr. Grier with them to- 
 dav,' Helen answered courteously ; but there was an absent look 
 in her eves, and she did not listen closely. 
 
 ' Well, people like a change once in a while,' Mrs. Grier 
 admitted, rocking hard. ' Mr. Grier's discourse was to be on the 
 same subject as vour husband's foreign missions. It is one that 
 moves the preachers, and the people seem to like it, I notice, 
 though I Hon't know that it makes any difference in the collect- 
 ions. But I think they like to get all harrowed up. You'll find 
 there won't be such an attendance in the afternoon. It is wavs 
 and means, then, you know. Yes, seems as if sermons on hell 
 made them shiver, and they enjoyed it. I've sometimes thought 
 I don't know as I'm riffht they get the same kind of pleasure 
 out of it that worldly people do out of a play. Not that I know 
 much about such things, I'm sure.' 
 
 Helen smiled, which rather shocked Mrs. Grier; but though the 
 guest scarcely listened, the little sharp babble of talk was kept 
 up, until they went down to dinner. 
 
 There had been no chance for the husband and wife to speak to 
 each other. John looked at Helen steadily a moment, but her 
 eyes veiled any thought. In the midst of Mrs. Grier's chatter, 
 she had eone into the solitude of her own heart, and slowlv and 
 silently light was beginning to shine into the mysterious darkness 
 fA the last few davs. John's grief must have had something to 
 do with this terrible sermon. She felt her heart leap up from the 
 past anxiety like a bird from a net, and the brooding sadness 
 began to fade from her face. The preacher had come down from 
 the pulpit with a certain exhilaration, as of duty done. He was 
 inspired to hope, and even certainty, by the greatness of the 
 theme. Helen should see the truth, his silence should no longer 
 mislead her, she should believe in the justice of God. He had 
 forgotten his sin of cowardice in the onward-sweeping wave of 
 his convictions ; he seemed to yield himself up to the grasp of 
 truth, and lost even personal remorse in the contemplation of its 
 majesty. 
 
 Mrs. Grier had four noisy children, who all spoke at once, 
 and needed their mother's constant care and attention, so John 
 and Helen could at least be silent; yet it was hard to sit 
 through the dinner when their hearts were impatient for each 
 other. 
 
 In a little breathing space at the end of the meal, when two of 
 the children had clambered down from their high chairs and been 
 dismissed, Mrs. Grier began to speak of the sermon. 
 
 ' It was a wonderful discourse, sir,' she said ; seems as if no- 
 body could stand against such doctrine as you gave us. I could
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 135 
 
 have wished, though, you'd have told us your thoughts about 
 infants being lost. There is a difference of opinion between Mr. 
 Grier and two of the elders." 
 
 ' What does Brother Grier hold ? ' asked the preacher. 
 
 'Well,' Mrs. Grier answered, shaking her head, 'he does say 
 they are all saved. But the elders, they say that the confession 
 of faith teaches that elect infants are saved, and of course it 
 follows that those not elect are lost. Mv father, Mr. Ward, was 
 a real old-fashioned Christian, and I must say that was what I 
 was taught to believe, and I hold by it. There now, Ellen, you 
 take your little sister and go out into the garden, like a good girl.' 
 
 She lifted the baby down from her chair, and put her hand into 
 that of her elder sister. 
 
 ' Mrs. Grier,' Helen said, speaking quickly, ' you say you 
 believe it, but if you had ever lost a child, I am sure you could 
 not.' 
 
 ' I have, ma'am* Mrs. Grier's thin lip quivered, and her eyes 
 reddened a little 'but that can't make any difference in truth ; 
 besides, we have the blessed hope that she was an elect infant.' 
 
 It would have been cruel to press the reason for this hope, and 
 Helen listened instead with a breath of relief to what John was 
 saying he, at least, did not hold this horrible doctrine. 
 
 ' No, I agree with your husband," he said.' ' True, all children 
 are born in sin, and are despised and abhorred as sinners by God. 
 Jonathan Edwards, you know, calls them ' vipers," which of course 
 was a crude and cruel way of stating the truth, that they are 
 sinners. Yet, through the infinite mercy, they are saved because 
 Christ died, not of themselves ; in other words, all infants who die, 
 are elect." 
 
 Mrs. Grier shook her head. ' I'm for holding to the catechism,' 
 she said ; and then, with a sharp, thin laugh, she added, ' But 
 you're sound on the heathen, I must say.' 
 
 Helen shivered, and it did not escape her hostess, who turned and 
 looked at her with interested curiosity. She, too, had heard the 
 Lockhaven rumors. 
 
 ' But then,' she proceeded, ' I don't see how a person can help 
 being sound on that, though it is surprising what people will 
 doubt, even the things that are plainest to other people. I've 
 many a time heard my father say that the proper holding of the 
 doctrine of reprobation was necessary to eternal life. I suppose 
 you believe that, Mr. Ward," she added, with a little toss of her 
 head, ' even if you don't go all the way of the confession about 
 infants ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' John said sadly, 'I must; because not to believe in 
 reprobation is to say that the sacrifice of the cross was a useless 
 offering.' 
 
 ' And of course,' Mrs. Grier went on, an edge of sarcasm cutting 
 her voice, ' Mrs. Ward thinks so, too ? Of course she thinks that
 
 136 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 a belief in hell is necessary to get to heaven ? ' 
 
 The preacher looked at his wife with a growing anxiety in his 
 face. 
 
 ' No,' Helen said, ' I do not think so, Mrs. Grier.' 
 
 Mrs. Grier flung up her little thin hands, which looked like bird- 
 claws. ' You don't ! ' she cried shrilly. ' Well, now, I do say ! 
 And what do you think about the heathen, then ? Do you think 
 they'll be damned ?' 
 
 ' No,' Helen said again. 
 
 Mrs. Grier gave a gurgle of astonishment, and looked at Mr. 
 Ward, but he did not speak. 
 
 ' Well,' she exclaimed, ' if I didn't think the heathen would be 
 lost, I wouldn't see the use of the plan of salvation ! Why, they've 
 got to be ! ' 
 
 ' If they had to be,' cried Helen, with sudden passion, ' I 
 should want to be a heathen. I should be ashamed to be saved, 
 if there were so many lost.' She stopped; the anguish in John's 
 face silenced her. 
 
 ' Well,' Mrs. Grier said again, really enjoying the scene, ' I'm 
 surprised ; I wouldn't ha' believed it ! ' 
 
 She folded her hands across her waist, and looked at Mrs. 
 Ward with keen interest. Helen's face flushed under the con- 
 temptuous curiosity in the woman's eyes ; she turned appealingly 
 to John. 
 
 ' Mrs. Ward does not think quite as we do yet,' he said 
 gently ; ' you know she has not been a Presbyterian as long as 
 we have.' 
 
 He rose as he spoke, and came and stood by Helen's chair, and 
 then walked at her side into the parlor. 
 
 Mrs. Grier had followed them, and heard Helen say in a low 
 voice, ' I would rather not go to church this afternoon, dearest. 
 May I wait for you here ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' she broke in, ' I shouldn't suppose you would care 
 to go, so long as it's just about the ways and means of sending- 
 the Gospel to the heathen, and you think they're all going right 
 to heaven, anyway.' 
 
 ' I do not know where they are going, Mrs. Grier,' Helen said 
 wearily ; ' for all I know, there is no heaven, either. I only know 
 that God if there is a God who has any personal care for us 
 could not be so wicked and cruel as to punish people for what they 
 could not help.' 
 
 ' Good land ! ' cried Mrs. Grier, really frightened at such words, 
 and looking about as though she expected a judgment as immediate 
 as the bears which devoured the scoffing children. 
 
 ' If you would rather not go,' John answered, ' if you are tired, 
 wait for me here. I am sure Mr-s. Grier will let you lie down and 
 rest until it is time to start for home.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' responded Mrs. Grier, foreseeing a chance for
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 137 
 
 further investigation, for she, too, was to be at home. 
 
 But Helen did not invite her to come into the spare room, 
 when she went to lie down, after John's departure for church. 
 She wanted to be alone. She had much to think of, much to- 
 reconcile and explain, to protect herself from the unhappiness- 
 which John's sermon might have caused her. She had had an 
 unmistakable shock of pain and distress as she realized her hus- 
 band's belief, and to feel even that seemed unloving and disloyal. 
 To Helen's mind, if she disapproved of her husband's opinions 
 on what to her was an unimportant subject, her first duty was 
 to banish the thought, and forget that she had ever had it. 
 She sat now by the open window, looking out over the bright 
 garden to the distant peaceful hills, and by degrees the pain of it 
 began to fade from her mind, in thoughts of John himself, his 
 goodness, and their love. Yes, they loved each other that was 
 enough. 
 
 ' What does it matter what his belief is ? ' she said. ' I love 
 him! ' 
 
 So, by-and-by, the content of mere existence unfolded in her 
 heart, and John's belief was no more to her than a dress of the 
 mind ; his character was unchanged. There was a momentary 
 pang that the characters of others might be hurt by this teach- 
 ing of the expediency of virtue, but she forced the thought 
 back. John, whose whole life was a lesson in the beauty of 
 holiness John could not injure anyone. The possibility that 
 he might be right in his creed simply never presented itself 
 to her. 
 
 Helen'-s face had relaxed into a happy smile ; again the day 
 was fair and the wind sweet. The garden below her was fragrant 
 with growing things and the smell of damp earth ; and while 
 she sat, drinking in its sweetness, a sudden burst of children's 
 voices reached her ear, and Ellen and the two little boys came 
 around the corner of the house, and settled down under the 
 window. A group of lilacs, with feathery purple blossoms, made 
 a deep, cool shade, where the children sat ; and near them was 
 an old grindstone, streaked with rust, and worn by many summers 
 of sharpening scythes ; a tin dipper hung on the wooden frame, 
 nearly full of last night's rain, and with some lilac-st^rs floating- 
 in the water. 
 
 This was evidently a favorite playground with the children, for 
 under the frame of the grindstone were some corn-cob houses, 
 and a little row of broken bits of china, which their simple imagi- 
 nation transformed into 'dishes.' But to-day the corn-cob houses 
 and the dishes were untouched. 
 
 'Now, children,' Ellen said, 'you sit right down, and I'll hear 
 your catechism.' 
 
 ' Who'll hear yours ? ' Bobby asked discontentedly. ' When 
 we play school, you're always teacher, and it's no fun.'
 
 138 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'This isn't playing school,' Ellen answered, skilfnlly evading 
 the first question. ' Don't you know it's wicked to play on the 
 Sabbath ? Now sit right down.' 
 
 There was a good deal of her mother's sharpness in the way 
 she said this, and plucked Bobby by the strings of his pinafore, 
 until he took an uncomfortable seat upon an inverted flower-pot. 
 
 Ellen opened a little yellow-covered book, and began. 
 
 ' Now answer, Jim ! How many kinds of sin are there ? ' 
 
 'Two,' responded little Jim. 
 
 ' What are these two kinds, Bob ? ' 
 
 'Original and actual,' Bob answered. 
 
 ' What is original sin ? ' asked Ellen, raising one little forefinger 
 to keep Bobby quiet. This was too hard a question for Jim, and 
 with some stumbling Bobby succeeded in saying : 
 
 ' It is that sin in which I was conceived and born.' 
 
 'Now, Jim,' said Ellen, 'you can answer this question, 'cause 
 it's only one word, and begins with 'y.' ' 
 
 ' No fair ! ' cried Bob ; ' that's telling.' 
 
 But Ellen proceeded to give the question : ' Doth original sin 
 wholly deSle you, and is it sufficient to send you to hell, though 
 you had no other sin ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' roared Jim, pleased at being certainly right. 
 
 ' What are you, then, by nature ; ' Ellen went on rather care- 
 lessly, for she was growing tired of the lesson. 
 
 'I am an enemy to God, a child of Satan, and an heir of hell,' 
 answered Bobby promptly. 
 
 ' What will become of the wicked ? ' asked the little catechist. 
 
 Bobby yawned, and then said contemptuously, ' Oh, skip that 
 cast into hell, of course.' 
 
 'You ought to answer right,' Ellen said reprovingly, but she 
 was glad to give the last question, ' What will the wicked do for 
 ever in hell ? ' 
 
 ' They will roar, curse, and blaspheme God,' said little Jim 
 cheerfully; while Bobby, to show his joy that the lesson was 
 done, leaned over on his flower-pot, and tried to stand on his 
 head, making all the time an unearthly noise. 
 
 ' I'm roarin' ! ' he cried gaily. 
 
 Ellen, freed from the responsibility of teaching, put the little 
 yellow book quickly in her pocket, and said mysteriously, ' Boys, 
 if you won't ever tell, I'll tell you something.' 
 
 ' I won't,' said Jim, while Bobby responded briefly, ' G'on.' 
 
 ' Well, you know when the circus came you know the pictures 
 on the fences ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said the little boys together. 
 
 ' 'Member the beautiful lady, ridin' on a horse, and standin' on 
 one foot ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' the others cried breathlessly. 
 
 ' Well,' said Ellen, slowly and solemnly, ' when I get to be a big
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 13$ 
 
 girl, that's what I'm going to be. I'm tired of catechism, and 
 church, and those long blessings father asks, but most of catechism, 
 so I'm going to run away, and be a circus.' 
 
 ' Father will catch you,' said Jim ; but Bobby, with envious 
 depreciation, added : 
 
 ' How do you know but what circuses have catechism '/ ' 
 
 Ellen did not notice the lack of sympathy. ' And I'm going to 
 begin to practice now,' she said. 
 
 Then, while her brothers watched her, deeply interested, she 
 took off her shoes, and in her well-darned little red stockings' 
 climbed deliberately upon the grindstone. 
 
 ' This is my horse,' she said, balancing herself, with outstretched 
 arms, on the stone, and making it revolve in a queer, jerky fashion 
 by pressing her feet on it as though it were a treadmill, ' and it is 
 bare-backed ! ' 
 
 The iron handle came down with a thud, and Ellen lurched to 
 keep from falling ; the boys unwisely broke into cheers. 
 
 It made a pretty picture, the sunbeams sifting through the lilacs 
 on the little fair heads, and dancing over Ellen's white apron and 
 rosy face ; but Mrs. Grier, who had come to the door at the noise 
 of the cheers, did not stop to notice it. 
 
 ' Oh, you naughty children ! ' she cried. ' Don't you know it is 
 wicked to play on the Sabbath ? Ellen's playing circus, do you 
 say, Bobby ? You naughty, naughty girl ? Dun't you know circus 
 people are all wicked, and don't go to heaven when they die ? I 
 should think you'd be ashamed ! Go right upstairs, Ellen, and 
 go to bed ; and you boys can each learn a psalm, and you'll have 
 no supper, either do you hear ? ' 
 
 The children began to cry, but Mrs. Grier was firm ; and when, 
 a little later, Helen came downstairs, ready for her ride, the house 
 was strangely quiet. Mrs. Grier, really troubled at her children's 
 sinfulness, confided their misdeeds to Helen, and was not soothed 
 by the smile that flashed across her face. 
 
 ' They were such good children to study their catechism first,' 
 she interceded, ' and making a horse out of a grindstone shows an 
 imagination which might excuse the playing.' 
 
 But Mrs. Grier was not comforted, and only frit the more con- 
 vinced of the lost condition of Mrs. Ward's soul. The conviction 
 of other people's sin is sometimes a very pleasing emotion, so she 
 bade her guest good-bye with much cordiality, and even pulled 
 the skirt of her habit straight, and gave the gray a lump of sugar. 
 
 Helen told John of the scene under the lilacs, as they trotted 
 down the lane to the highway, but his mood was too grave to see 
 any humor in it. Indeed, his frame of mind had changed after 
 he left his wife for his second sermon. The exhilaration and 
 triumph had gone, and the reaction had come. He brooded over 
 his sin, and the harassed, distressed look of the last few days set- 
 tled down again on his face. But Helen had regained her sweet
 
 I 4 o JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 serenity and content ; she felt so certain that the darkness since 
 Thursday had been the shadow in which his sermon had been con- 
 ceived, that her relief brought a joy which obscured any thought 
 of regret that he should hold such views. 
 
 John's head was bent, and his hands were clasped upon his 
 saddle-bow, while the reins fell loosely from between his listless 
 fingers. 
 
 4 You are so tired, John,' Helen said regretfully. 
 
 He sighed, as though rousing himself from thought. ' A little, 
 dearest,' and then his sorrowful eyes smiled. ' You look so fresh 
 and rested, Helen. It was wise for you to lie down this after- 
 noon.' 
 
 ' Oh, but I didn't,' she said quickly. ' I was busy thinking.' 
 
 He looked at her eagerly. ' Yes,' she continued, ' I think I 
 know what has distressed you so these last few days, dear. It is 
 this thought of the suffering of mankind. If you have felt that all 
 the heathen who have died are in hell, I don't wonder at your 
 sorrow. It woi id be dreadful, and I wish you did not think it. 
 But we will not talk about it of course you would rather not talk 
 about it, even to me but I understand.' 
 
 She bent forward, and smiled brightly, as she looked at him. 
 But his face was full of grief. 
 
 4 It was not that, Helen, 1 he said ; ' it was something nearer 
 than that. It was remorse, because of late, for nearly a year, I" 
 have neglected my people. I have not admonished them and 
 warned them as I ought, and nearer still, because I have neg- 
 lected you.' 
 
 4 Me ! ' she cried, too much astonished to say more. 
 
 4 Yes,' he answered, his head bent again upon his breast ; 'you, 
 my dearest, my best beloved you, who are dearer than my life to 
 me, dearer than my happiness. I have known that you have been 
 far from truth, that you have not believed, and yet I I have been 
 silent.' 
 
 Helen looked at him, and the sudden awful thought flashed into 
 her mind that he did not know what he was saying, and then she 
 said with a gasp : ' Oh, John, is that all ? Have you been so un- 
 Happy just because of that ? Oh, you poor fellow ! ' 
 
 She brought her horse close beside his, and laid her hand on 
 his arm. ' Dear, what does it matter what I believe or do not 
 believe ? We love each other. And where is your tolerance, 
 John ? ' She laughed, but the look of terrible concern in his face 
 frightened her. 
 
 4 Ah, Helen,' he said, ' such tolerance as you would have me 
 show would be indifference.' 
 
 4 Oh, John ! ' she said, and then began resolutely to speak of 
 other things. 
 
 But soon they fell into silence, Helen longing to get home and 
 brush this useless and foolish anxiety from her husband's heart,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 141 
 
 and he agonizing for his sin towards her and towards his people. 
 
 The late afternoon sunshine gilded the tender greed of the fields, 
 and slanting- deep into the darkness of the woods, touched the 
 rough trunks of the trees with gold. Long shadows stretched 
 across the road, and the fragrance which steals out with the 
 evening dews began to come from unseen blossoms, and early 
 clover ; and a breath of the uncertain night wind brought hints 
 of apple orchards, or the pungent sweetness of cherry-blossoms. 
 They had gone more than half-way home when they drew rein 
 to water their horses, under a whispering pine by the roadside. 
 The trough, overflowing with sparkling water, was green with 
 moss and lichen, and was so old and soft that a bunch of ferns 
 had found a home in its side. The horses thrust their noses 
 down into it, blowing and sputtering with sheer delight in the 
 coolness, John made a cup of a big beech leaf, and filled it for 
 his wife. As he handed it to her, they heard steps, and in a 
 moment more Mr. Grier came around the curve of the road. 
 His horse, too, was thirsty, and he let the reins fall on its neck 
 while he greeted them both with formal and ministerial dignity, 
 saying he ' wished they might have tarried until he came home, 
 and perhaps he could have persuaded them to stay the night.' 
 
 The horses pounded and splashed in the pools about their feet, 
 and were impatient to be off, but Mr. Grier delayed. He spoke 
 of church matters, and General Assembly, and their respective 
 congregations ; and then, with a little hesitation, he said : 
 
 ' I had almost hoped, Mrs. Ward, that you would have been in 
 Brother Ward's church to-day, even though Mrs. Grier had much 
 pleasure in seeing you under our roof. I had you in my mind in 
 the preparation of my sermon.' 
 
 Mr. Grier was a tall, thin man, with watery blue eyes, and a 
 sparse sandy beard growing like a fringe under his chin from ear 
 to ear. He moved his jaws nervously as he waited for her answer, 
 and plucked at his beard with long lean fingers. 
 
 Helen smiled. ' Did you think I should be a large contributor 
 to foreign missions, Mr. Grier ? ' 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' he answered solemnly, ' I was not thinking of 
 any benefit to the heathen. I had somewhat to say which I felt 
 might be for the good of your own soul.' 
 
 Helen flushed, and flung her head back with a haughty look. 
 
 'Ah you are very good, I'm sure,' she said, 'but ' 
 
 Mr. Grier interrupted her, wagging his head up and down upon 
 his breast : ' Brother Ward will forgive me for saying so, ma'am, 
 but I had your welfare at heart. Brother Ward, you have my 
 prayers for your dear wife.' 
 
 'I I thank you,' John said, 'but you must not feel that my 
 wife is far from the Lord. Have you been told that the truth is 
 oot clear to her eyes ? Yet it will be ! ' 
 
 'Ihop so I hope so,' responded Mr. Grier, but with very
 
 14* JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 little hope in his voice ; and then shaking the reins, he jogged 
 on down the shadowy road. 
 
 ' What does he mean ? ' cried Helen, her voice trembling with 
 anger, and careless whether the retreating minister overheard 
 her. John gave her a long, tender look. 
 
 ' Dearest,' he said, ' I am sorry he should have spoken as he 
 did, but the prayers of a good man ' 
 
 'I don't want his prayers,' she interrupted, bewildered; 'it 
 seems to me simply impertinence ! ' 
 
 ' Helen,' he said, ' it cannot be impertinence to pray for a 
 soul in danger, as yours is, my darling. I cannot tell how he 
 knew it, but it is so. It is my sin which has kept you blind, 
 and hidden the truth from you, and how can I be angry if 
 another man joins his prayers to mine for your eternal salvation ? ' 
 
 ' You say this because I do not believe in eternal punishment, 
 John ? ' she asked. 
 
 'Yes,' he answered gently, 'first because of that, and then 
 because of all the errors of belief to which it leads.' 
 
 ' It seems so unimportant,' she said, sighing ; ' certainly nothing 
 which could make me claim the prayers of a stranger. Ah, 
 well, no doubt he means it kindly, but don't let us speak of it 
 any more, dearest.' 
 
 The horses were so close, that, glancing shyly about for a 
 moment into the twilight, Helen laid her head against his arm, 
 and looked tenderly into his face. 
 
 He started, and then put a quick arm about her to keep her 
 from falling. 'No,' he said, ' no, I will not forget.' It was as 
 though he answered some voice in his soul, and Helen looked at 
 him in troubled wonder. 
 
 The rest of the ride was very silent. Once, when he stopped to 
 tighten her saddle-girth for her, she bent her head back, and 
 smiled down into his eyes. He only answered her by a look, but 
 it was enough. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 GlFFORD WOODHOUSE was not quite honest with himself when 
 he said he felt it was time to go back to Ashnrst to make his aunts 
 a visit. He had been restless and absent-minded very often since 
 that flying trip in the early spring. In spite of his sternest rea- 
 soning, hope was beginning to grow up in his heart again. Dick 
 Forsythe had not come to Ashurst, and Helen said plainly that she 
 knew Lois was not engaged to him. So why should not Gifford 
 himself be on the spot. 
 ' Not that I would bother Lois/ he urged in his own mind :
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 143 
 
 'but just to know if ' And, besides, he really ought to see 
 
 the two little ladies. 
 
 He left Lockhaven a few days after John Ward had preached 
 his sermon on foreign missions at Chester. It was reported to 
 have been ' powerful,' and Elder Dean said he wished ' our own 
 people could have been benefited by it.' 
 
 ' I thought the heathen were expected to be benefited by such 
 sermons,' Gifford said, twisting a cigarette between his fingers, 
 as he leaned over the half-door of the elder's shop, lazily watching 
 a long white shaving curl up under his plane. ' I thought the 
 object was a large contribution.' 
 
 The elder looked up solemnly, and opened his lips with vast 
 deliberation. ' Lawyer Woodhouse,' he said, 'that's your mistake. 
 They're fer the purpose of instructing us that the heathen is 
 damned, so that we will rejoice in our own salvation, and make 
 haste to accept it if we are unconverted.' 
 
 He looked hard at the young man as he spoke, for everyone 
 knew Lawyer Woodhouse did not go regularly to the church, and 
 so, presumably, was not a Christian. 
 
 Then Mr. Dean, while he pulled the shavings out of his plane., 
 and threw them on the fragrant heap at his feet, said one or two 
 things which made Gifford stop lounging- and forget his cigarette 
 while he listened with a grave face. ' Unbelief in the church,' 
 ' the example for our youth,' ' the heresy of the preacher's wife/ 
 
 This was not the first time Gifford had heard such comments, 
 but there was a threat in Mr. Dean's voice, though he did not put 
 it into words, which made the young man carry a growing anxiety 
 about Helen away with him. He could not forget it even in the 
 rejoicings of his home-coming, and he gave guarded answers 
 about her which were unlike his usual frankness. 
 
 Lois noticed it, and wondered a little, but was perhaps more 
 annoyed than troubled by it. 
 
 The shyness of her welcome Gifford quite misunderstood. 
 
 ' After all,' he thought, 'what was the use of coming ? What- 
 ever Forsythe's chances are, there is one thing sure she does 
 not care for me. She used to have that old friendly way, at least ; 
 but even that is gone now. I might have known it. I was a fool 
 to run into the fire again. Thank Heaven, that cad isn't here. 
 When he comes, I'll go ! ' 
 
 And so he wandered forlornly about, his hands in his pockets, 
 and a disconsolate look on his face which greatly distressed his 
 aunts Somehow, too, the big fellow's presence for any length 
 of time embarrassed them. They had been so long without a man 
 in the house, they realized suddenly that he took up a great deal 
 of room, and that their small subjects of conversation could not 
 interest him. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Miss Ruth shrewdly, ' he has found some nice 
 girl in Lockhaven, and misses her. What do you think, sister ? > 
 
 J
 
 144 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' It is not impossible,' answered Miss Deborah ; ' but, dear me, 
 sister, if only Helen Jeffrey had not married so young ! 1 always 
 felt that Providence pointed to her for dear Giff.' 
 
 'Well,' said Miss Ruth, a little color creeping into her cheek, 
 ' I think Providence does arrange such things, and as Helen 
 seems much attached to Mr. Ward, no doubt that was meant. It 
 is gratifying to think such things always are meant. I have even 
 thought that when a person no longer very young, even quite 
 advanced in life, remains unmarried, it was because the other, 
 appointed by Heaven, died, no doubt in infancy.' 
 
 Miss Ruth mentioned her suspicion of the ' nice girl in Lock- 
 haven to Lois, while Miss Deborah added that it was really no 
 pleasure to cook for dear Giff; he was so out of spirits, he didn't 
 seem to care for anything ; he did not even eat the whigs, and 
 Lois knew how fond he was of whigs. Very likely dear Ruth was 
 right. 
 
 This made Lois' interest in Gifford still deeper, though she said, 
 tossing her head with airy impatience, that she did not believe 
 there were any nice girls in Lockhaven ; there were only working 
 people there. Then she thought of that talk with Gifford at the 
 stone bench, and recalled the promise she had made, and how 
 she had sealed it. Her cheeks burned till they hurt her. 
 
 'He has forgotten it all, long ago,' she said to herself; 'men 
 never remember such things. Well, he shan't think I remember ! ' 
 
 But how often Gifford remembered ! 
 
 One afternoon he walked over to the stone bench, and sat down 
 on the very same sunken step from which he had looked up 
 into Lois' face that June evening. He saw a bunch of violets 
 growing just where her foot must have rested, and what was 
 more natural for Gifford was still young than that pencil and 
 note-book should appear, and, with a long-drawn sigh, he should 
 write hastily : 
 
 O Violet, 
 Dost thou forget T ' 
 
 and then stop, perhaps to sharpen his pencil, and, if the truth be 
 told, to cast about for a rhyme. 
 
 Alas, that love and poetry should be checked by anything so 
 commonplace as syllables ! Let wet yet one can fit in the 
 sense easily when the proper rhyme has been decided upon ; and 
 who knows but that Gifford, lying there in the grass, with the 
 old lichen -covered step for a desk, might have written a sonnet 
 or a madrigal which would have given him his heart's desire be- 
 fore the moon rose ! But an interruption came. 
 
 The rector and Mr. Denner were coming back from fishing, 
 along the road on the other side of the hedge, and Dr. Howe 
 in here to follow the garden path home, instead of taking
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 145 
 
 the longer way. Moth pushed through a gap in the hedge, and 
 disc< ' >rd lying in the grass by th-e stone bench. 
 
 ' Hello ! ' said the rector. ' Working up a case, young man ? ' 
 
 Perhaps Gifford was not altogether displeased to be interrupted; 
 the song \ve might have sung is always sweetest At all events, 
 he v<?rv good-naturedly put his note-book back in his pocket, 
 and rolling over on his stomach, his elbows crushing down the 
 soft grass and his fists under his chin, began to talk to the two 
 elder men. 
 v ' Had good luck ? ' 
 
 The rector shook his head ruefully. ' Denner has two trout. 
 Fate was against me. Any fishing about Lockhaven, Gifford ? 
 Ward do any ?' 
 
 GilTord laughed. ' He only fishes for men,' he said. ' He de- 
 votes himself to it day and night. Especially of late; his fear 
 of hell-fire for other people's souls has seemed to take great hold 
 on him.' 
 
 ' Gad ! ' said Dr. Howe. ' He's a queer fellow.' 
 
 ' He's a good fellow,' Gifford answered, warmly. And as to his 
 belief, why, you believe in hell, don't you, -doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, bless my soul, yes,' said Dr. Howe, with a laugh, and with 
 a twinkle in his eyes. ' I must, you know, and it's well to be on 
 the safe side, Giff ; if you believe it here, theoretically, it is to be 
 supposed you won't believe it there experimentally ! ' He laughed 
 again, his big, jolly laugh. ' Good-bye, Denner. You took all 
 the luck.' 
 
 Then he trudged whistlingupthe path, striking at the hollyhocks 
 with his rod, and wondering how long it would take Sally to brush 
 the mud off his corduroys. 
 
 Mr. Denner delayed. He laid his rod tenderly down on the 
 grass, and his fishing-basket on the stone-bench beside him. 
 Gifford's sense of humour padded a good many of the sharp points 
 of life ; he had to look less doleful when he saw that the lawyer 
 had chosen Lois' seat, and even her attitude ; his little shrivelled 
 hands were clasped upon his knees, and he was bending forward, 
 looking at the young man as he talked. Gifford thought of a son- 
 net in his breast-pocket, beginning, ' To one who sat 'neath rust- 
 ling poplar-tree,' and smiled. 
 
 'Well, now,' said Mr. Denner, ' it is pleasant to see you at home 
 again, Gifford. It must be a pleasure to your aunts.' 
 
 ' It is a great pleasure to me,' the young man replied. ' I only 
 wish I could carry them back to Lockhaven with me.' 
 
 ' What, both of them ? ' Mr. Denner asked, in an alarmed 
 way. 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' answered the other ; ' they couldn't be sepa- 
 rated. Why, you cannot think of one of them without thinking 
 of the other J '
 
 146 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Mr. Denner sighed. ' Just so, just so. I have observed 
 that.' 
 
 'But I'm afraid,' Gifford went on, 'they wouldn't be quite 
 happy there. There's no church, you know I mean no Epis- 
 copal Church and then it isn't like Ashurst. Except Helen 
 and Mr. Ward, there only working people, though, for that mat- 
 ter, Ward works harder than anybody else. Yes, they would miss 
 Ashurst too much.' 
 
 ' You really think they would miss us ? ' said Mr. Denner 
 eagerly. 
 
 'Yes,' responded Gifford slowly. He was beginning to look 
 at the bunch of violets again, and his aunts did not seem so inter- 
 esting. 
 
 ' Well, now,' Mr. Denner said, ' I am sure I am glad to hear 
 you say that, very glad. We ah should miss them, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 Gifford reached out and plucked up the violets by the roots, to 
 save them from Mr. Denner' s drab gaiter, and planted them deep 
 in a crevice of the steps. 
 
 ' Ah Gifford,' said the lawyer, after he had waited a reasonable 
 time for an answer, ' a a friend of mine is in some perplexity con- 
 cerning an attachment; he wished my advice.' 
 
 Gifford began to look interested. 
 
 ' Foreclosure ? ' 
 
 'You ah, you do not exactly catch my meaning,' answered 
 the little gentleman nervously. ' I refer he referred to an affair 
 of of the affections. Of course you are too young to really 
 understand those things from a a romantic point of view, as 
 it were, but, being a lawyer, your a legal training would 
 make you consider such a matter intelligently, and I might take 
 your advice.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Gifford, seeming to grasp the situation. ' Yes ; I 
 had one case of that kind in Lockhaven. Jury gave dam- 
 ages to my client ; seems they had been engaged twelve years 
 when she j'lted him I detest those breach-of-promise suits : 
 they ' 
 
 Mr. Denner bounded from his seat. ' My dear boy, my dear 
 sir,' he gasped, ' not at all, not at all ! You do not apprehend me, 
 Gifford. My friend is in love, sir ; and he wishes my advice, not 
 legally, you understand, but in regard to his choice ! ' 
 
 ' Your advice ! ' Gifford burst out, but instantly apologized by 
 saying he believed it was not usual to ask advice in such matters 
 a man usually knew. But perhaps he was mistaken. 
 
 ' Yes I am inclined to think you are,' responded Mr. Denner, 
 with a jauntiness which sat strangely upon his wrinkled face I 
 think you are. Being still a very young person, Gifford, you 
 scarcely understand the importance of such matters, and the ah 
 wisdom of seeking advice. I believe it is always said that youth
 
 JOHN \VARD, PREACHER. 147 
 
 does not realize the importance of advice. But the fact is, my 
 friend has placed his affections upon two ladies. Ihey are con- 
 nections, and both he represents to be estimable persons ; both, 
 as I understand it, equally admirable. Equally, you observe, 
 Gifford. And he is unable to make up his mind which is the best 
 I should say the more desirable. I, unfortunately, was unable 
 to throw any light upon the subject.' 
 
 ' Do you know the young ladies ? ' asked Gifford. 
 
 ' I I may say I have met them,' admitted Mr. Denner. 
 
 'And how did you advise him ? ' Gifford asked, his face preter- 
 naturally grave. 
 
 Mr. Denner looked anxious. ' That is just it. I have been unable 
 to come to any conclusion. I wondered if if I spoke of their 
 characteristics in a general way (they are both so truly estimable) 
 you might have an opinion. He did not think he could reach a 
 decision, he tells me, for a friend of his thought he knew a proverb 
 which would throw a li<jht upon it.' 
 
 ' Settle it by a proverb ! ' cried Gifford. 
 
 'Yes,' answered Mr. Denner firmly, 'yes; and an excellent way 
 it would be, if one could find the proverb.' 
 
 The air of offended dignity in Mr. Denner's face sobered 
 Gifford at once. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir," he said ; ' the method was new to me, 
 though it is, no doubt, excellent. May I ask the proverb ? ' 
 
 But the lawyer was hurt. ' It is not worth while to mention 
 it. It was not not suitable. It did not enable my friend to 
 reach a decision, after all ; it was merely something in regard to 
 whist.' 
 
 Gifford hid his face in the grass for a moment, and then he said 
 again, ' I I beg your pardon, Mr. Denner ; it struck me as an 
 unusual way of settling a love-affair. Your friend must have 
 been much disappointed ? ' 
 
 ' He was he was, sir,' answered Mr. Denner, not knowing 
 whether to be angry or injured, and picking up his reel and rod 
 with trembling hands. 
 
 ' Well, now,' Gifford said, sitting up and leaning his arms upon 
 his knees, the laughter still glimmering in his gray eyes, ' I could 
 give you a proverb unless they are twins ? ' 
 
 Mr. Denner sat down again on the stone bench, and looked at 
 him eagerly. 
 
 ' No, Gifford, they are not twins no. There is a good ten years 
 between them.' 
 
 ' Then,' said the young man, ' what does your friend want 
 better than ' Age before beauty ? ' Let him propose to the 
 lder.' 
 
 Mr. Denner laid his rod down upon the grass, and, rising, ex- 
 tended his hand to his companion. 
 
 'Gifford,' he said, 'you are an intelligent young man a re-
 
 I 4 3 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 markable young man, sir. I knew it when I determined to ask 
 your advice for my friend. I thank you. My my friend 
 thanks y<m, Gifford. He will act upon this at once ; he is forever 
 indebted to you, sir.' 
 
 It was all so solemn that Gifford's gravity lasted until the 
 little gentleman had disappeared through the hedge, and was 
 far down tbp road ; then he hid his face in the grass, and laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 But Mr. Denner was happy. He fairly beamed as he walked 
 along, repeating the proverb to himself. 'Yes,' he said, 
 ' nothing could be better nothing. How strange that it has 
 not occurred to me before, or that Henry should not have 
 thought of it. ' Age before beauty !' Yes, just so just so ! ' 
 
 While he was meditating thus happily, he heard behind him 
 that curious, irregular beat which only the hoofs of a runaway 
 horse can make, and the whirl of flying wheels swinging from 
 side to side. He sprang to one side of the road, his little heart 
 pounding with sudden fright, and looked back to see the rectory 
 phaeton, reeling and almost over-turning, dragged madly at the 
 heels of a shaggy little pony. They came flying toward him. 
 Mr. Denner caught a glimpse, through the cloud of dust, of 
 Lois Howe's white face, and a shrinking figure clinging to her. 
 A gray veil fluttered across the face, so that Mr. Denner could 
 not tell who it was, but instantly it flashed through his mind, 
 ' It is one of them ! ' He threw down his basket and rod, and 
 braced himself for the shock of the encounter with the plunging 
 horse ; his little nerves, never very strong, were strung like 
 steel. Somehow, in that instant or waiting, the proverb was 
 forgotten; he felt that fate would decide for him. 'It shall 
 be this one ! ' he said aloud ' this one ! ' Then the horse seemed 
 upon him ; he did not know when he made that jump at the 
 bridle, or felt the iron hoof strike his breast; he had only aeon- 
 fused sense of seeing the gray figure thrown out upon the ground 
 just as he found himself falling backwards. Then he lost con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 When he came to himself, and saw the trees and bushes 
 dance strangely about him for a moment, he found that he had 
 been lifted over the grass at the roadside, and that Gifford 
 Woodhouse's arm was under his head. As his eyes grew steady, 
 he saw that two men were holding the trembling, steaming horse, 
 and that a little group of people were standing about the 
 phaeton ; but the gray figure had disappeared. Gifford was fan- 
 ning him, and pressing something to his lips with a gentle, 
 anxious hand. 
 
 ' Gifford,' he said faintly ' ah which ? ' 
 
 'They are neither of them hu-rt, thank God,' answered the 
 young man reverently. ' but they owe their lives to you, Mr. 
 Denner.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 149 
 
 'Yes but' he struggled to say ' which which was it ? ' 
 
 ' He means who was it,' said the rector, who had taken his 
 place on the other side of the injured man. ' It was my daughter 
 God bless you, Denner ! and Mrs. Forsythe.' 
 
 Mr. Denner groaned, and shut his eyes. ' Oh, it wasn't either,' 
 he murmured ; 'that's always the way ! ' 
 
 ' His mind is wandering,' Gifford said, in a low voice. 'I'm 
 afraid this is very serious, doctor. Do you think he can be moved 
 now ? ' 
 
 The lawyer did not try to prove his sanity ; he only groaned 
 again, but this time it was partly from pain. They lifted him 
 gently, and carried him into his own house, which he had nearly 
 reached when the runaway overtook him. 
 
 Both the women in the carriage had been thrown out, but Lois 
 was able to walk, and so far as could be ascertained Mrs. For- 
 sythe was unhurt, save from the shock, which sent her from one 
 fainting fit to another until late that night. They had carried her 
 back to the rectory, Lois clinging to one limp hand, and crying 
 hysterically. 
 
 'Oh, she will die,' she sobbed, ' I know she will die; and it is 
 my fault, it is my carelessness ! You needn't say it isn't, father. 
 I know it is ! Oh, what shall I do ! ' 
 
 But there was nothing to do ; and Mrs. Dale, who had been 
 hastily summoned for her reputation for nursing was even wider 
 than Miss Deborah's for housekeeping only put her to bed, 'to 
 get her out of the way,' she said, but really because she was filled 
 with sympathy for her niece's remorse, and felt that the forgetful- 
 ness of sleep was the only comfort for her. 
 
 'I'll tell you what it is, brother,' she said she had quietly 
 settled herself in authority at the rectory, despite Jean's air of 
 contemptuous dignity ' I believe Arabella Forsythe will have a 
 chance to die, at last. She's been looking for it these ten years, 
 and as soon as she stops fainting it will be a positive satisfaction 
 to her. I'm afraid she is really a very sick woman.' 
 
 But no such thought did she impart to Lois, when she tucked 
 her up in bed, giving her a hearty kiss with her soothing draught, 
 and bidding her have some sense and stop crying, for Mrs. For- 
 sythe would be all right in the morning. But the morning 
 brought no comfort ; the doctor, who had come from Mercer as 
 quickly as Mrs. Dale's horses could bring him, was very grave. 
 
 ' The shock to the nervous system,' he said ' we cannot tell 
 what it will do.' 
 
 Lois was prostrated by grief at Mrs. Forsythe's condition, no 
 one dared tell her that Mr. Denner was the immediate anxiety. 
 There was an injury to the spine, and the plunging hoofs had 
 done more harm than was at first supposed ; things looked very 
 serious for the little gentleman. 
 
 The lawyer had fainted when he was lifted over his gloomy
 
 ISO JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 threshold where Mary stood waiting and wringing her hands, and 
 had struggled back to consciousness to find himself on the big, 
 slippery horse-hair sofa, in his dusky library. Dr. Howe was 
 standing at his side, looking anxiously down at him, and a neigh- 
 bour was trying to slip a pillow under his head. Gifford had gone 
 to help Mary bring a bed downstairs, for the ilightest movement 
 caused Mr. Denner pain, and they dare not lift him, even to take 
 him up to his bedroom. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' Mr. Denner tried to say. ' I seem to 
 be giving trouble. Ah pray do not mind me, doctor.' 
 
 ' You were hurt, you know, Denner,' said the rector, whose 
 feet were planted wide apart, and his hands thrust down in his 
 pockets, and who felt oppressed by the consciousness of his own 
 superabundant vitality, for the lawyer looked so small and thin, 
 and his voice was hardly more than a whisper. ' You've been a 
 little faint. You'll be all right soon. But Giff's going to put a 
 bed up in here for you, because you might find it uncomfortable 
 to try to get upstairs, you know.' 
 
 Mr. Denner looked anxious at this ; he wondered if Mary would 
 not be offended ; but he was too strangely weary to talk, and his 
 little twinkling eyes were dim and blurred. 
 
 Gifford and Mary had carried down the four big posts of Mr. 
 Denner's bed, which looked like mahogany obelisks, and began 
 to put it together, with many interruptions for Mary to wipe her 
 eyes on the corner of her gingham apron, and remark it would 
 soon be over, and she did not know where she would ever get such 
 another place. Once the rector turned and sharply bade her hold 
 her tongue. Mr. Denner opened his eyes at that, though he had 
 scarcely seemed to hear her. Nor did he know why Gilford and 
 the rector talked so long with the doctor on the broad flat stone 
 at the front door, in the fragrant spring twilight. Afterwards he 
 beckoned Gifford to him. 
 
 ' He did not quite like,' he said, ' to leave his rod out ovet 
 night ; he could go and get it in the morning, he knew, but if it 
 wouldn't be too much trouble, he would be obliged if Gifford 
 would bring it in. And there were two trout in the basket ; per- 
 haps he would be good enough to present them, with his compli- 
 ments, to the Misses Woodhouse.' Gilford went for the rod, but 
 could not get back without an inquiry at the rectory. 
 
 'Arabella Forsythe,' said Mrs. Dale 'well, as I told brother, 
 I think this is her opportunity. She really is in a bad way, Giff. 
 Lois wasn't hurt at all, wonderful to say ; but naturally, she's in 
 great distress, because she blames herself for the whole thing.' 
 
 ' How so ?' asked Gifford. 
 
 1 Well, of course,' Mrs Dale answered, rubbing her little red 
 nose with her handkerchief, and with a suspicious mht in her 
 eyes 'of course it really was her fault, only we mustn't let her 
 Imow we think so. You see, she w^s driving (I've always said
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 151 
 
 women aon't know how to drive ; they're too inconsequent). She 
 wasn't paying attention to her horses, and let a rein slip. Before 
 she could pick it up, the horse shied at a newspaper blowing 
 along the road. Well, you know the rest. But Lois does not 
 know that we think it was her carelessness. 
 
 Gifford hesitated a moment, and then said slowly, ' But 
 wouldn't it be better to help her face the truth of it now? 
 There is no use to try to escape self-reproaches that have their 
 roots in facts.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' responded Mrs. Dale sharply, ' I thought you had 
 more sympathy ! ' 
 
 Gifford had told his aunts of the accident, when he brought 
 them the offering of the two small fishes, and the ladies were full 
 of distress and anxiety, and the flutter of excited interest which 
 would be sure to be felt in a place like Ashurst. They had gone 
 at once to the rectory, to see if they could be of use, though, as 
 Miss Deborah said to her sister, ' with Adele Dale there, of course 
 there is nothing more to be desired.' Nevertheless, the next 
 morning, Miss Ruth ran over with a bowl of wine jelly from Miss 
 Deborah, and brought back word that Mrs. Forsythe was ' still 
 breathing,' and that the gravest apprehensions were felt for Mr. 
 Denner. 
 
 Miss Deborah was waiting in the parlour to hear the news ; 
 so important an occasion seemed to demand the dignity of the 
 parlor, and in a high-backed armchair, with her feet on a stool 
 and a fresh handkerchief in her hand, she listened to Miss Ruth's 
 agitated and tearful story. 
 
 ' I will make some whips for William Denner,' she said 
 promptly, as Miss Ruth finished, ' and we will take them to him 
 this afternoon.' 
 
 'Well, but, sister,' said Miss Ruth, hesitating, 'do you think 
 we'd better ? Ought not we to let Giff take them ? ' 
 
 ' Why,' asked Miss Deborah. ' He is able to see us, isn't 
 he?' 
 
 ' It is not quite that,' answered the younger sister, nervously, 
 taking off her bonnet, and beginning to roll the strings tight and 
 smooth between her fingers, ' but he is in his chamber, sister. 
 Would it be quite proper ? ' 
 
 ' I think,' said Miss Deborah, holding her head very straight, 
 4 we are old enough to ' 
 
 ' You may be," returned Miss Ruth firmly, ' but I am not.' 
 
 Miss Deborah was silent for a moment ; then she said, ' Well, 
 perhaps you are right, dear Ruth ; though he is certainly very ill, 
 and didn't you say he was in the library ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ said Miss Ruth, 'he is very ill, but the fact of his couch 
 being in the library does not alter it. If anything sad should be 
 going to happen it would be different then.' 
 
 ' Of course,' assented Miss Deborah.
 
 152 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'You see,' Miss Ruth explained, ' if we saw him, and then he 
 got well, it would be very awkward.' 
 
 ' True,' said Miss Deborah. ' And certainly single women can- 
 not be too delicate in such matters. We will send the whips by 
 Giff. Poor, poor William Denner ! Let me see were you to be 
 his partner on Saturday ? Oh no, I recollect : it was I it was my 
 turn.' 
 
 ' I think not,' Miss Ruth replied gently ; ' you played last week, 
 I should have played with him this time.' 
 
 'Not at all,' said Miss Deborah firmly, 'he was mine.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE suspense was very hard for Lois Howe to bear. 
 
 When Mrs. Dale drove her from the sick-room for air and 
 exercise, she wandered restlessly about the rectory, or went to 
 Mr. Denner's door to beg- a word of encouragement from Mary, 
 or take a momentary comfort from the messages he sent her that 
 he was better, and he begged she would not allow herself the 
 slightest discomfort ; it was really of no consequence no conse- 
 quence at all. 
 
 Gifford was almost always with the little gentleman, and 
 scarcely left him, even to walk through the garden to the grassy 
 street with Lois. On Sunday, however, late in the afternoon, 
 he went home with her ; for Mr. Dale, with whom she had come, 
 was going to sit awhile with Mr. Denner, and Gifford felt he 
 could be spared. 
 
 The hour was full of that peculiar Sunday afternoon quiet 
 which seems to subdue even the crickets and the birds. There 
 was a breath of fragrance from some fresh-cut grass, still wet 
 from a noon thunder-shower, which had left the air crystal-clear 
 and fresh. Their shadows stretched far ahead along the road, 
 where the dust was still damp, though the setting sun poured a 
 flood of yellow light behind them. Lois walked as though very 
 tired ; she scarcely noticed her companion, and did not speak 
 except to answer his questions. 
 
 ' Isn't there any change in Mrs. Forsythe ? ' he asked, with 
 anxious sympathy. 
 
 Lois shook her head. ' No, 1 she said. 
 
 ' Hasn't the rector gotten a word to her son yet ? ' 
 
 'No,' Lois said again, ' We telegraphed twice, but he seems 
 to be out of town, and nobody knows his address.' 
 
 Gifford made no comment. 
 
 ' I wish he would come ! ' the girl cried passionately. 4 It 
 would be a relief to have him reproach me.'
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 153 
 
 'I hope there will be no need of reproaches. I do hepe his 
 mother will get well.' 
 
 ' Oh no, no,' Lois said, ' she won't ! I know it.' 
 
 ' Try to be more hopeful,' he urged. 'The doctor said there 
 was absolutely no injury except the shock. I believe she will get 
 well, Lois.' 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know her,' Lois answered. ' You don't know 
 how frail she is. And then there's Mr. Denner! It is the respon- 
 sibility of it that kills me, Giff ! I cannot get away from it for one 
 single minute.' 
 
 They had walked along the road where the accident had taken 
 place, and Lois shivered as she saw the trampled grass, though 
 it had been her wish that they should come this way. 
 
 ' Oh,' she said, putting her hands over her eyes, ' life can never 
 look the same to me, even if they get well ! ' 
 
 'No,' Gifford said, 'I understand that. But it may have a 
 new sweetness of gratitude, Lois.' 
 
 When they came to the gap in the hedge which was the 
 outlet for the rectory path, Gifford held aside the twigs for her 
 to enter. 
 
 'Let us sit down on the stone bench a little while,' he said. 
 ' This is where poor little Mr. Denner sat that afternoon. Oh/ 
 he added in a lower voice, 'just think from what a grief he may 
 have saved us ! I feel as though I could never be able to show 
 him my gratitude/ Then he looked at the transplanted bunch of 
 violets, which was fresh and flourishing, and was silent. 
 
 Lois sat down a little reluctantly. The memory of that 
 June night, nearly a year ago, flashed into her mind ; she felt 
 the color creep up to her forehead. ' Oh,' she thought, ' how 
 contemptible I am to have any thought but grief how shallow I 
 am, how cruel ! ' 
 
 And to punish herself for this, she rushed into speaking of her 
 responsibility again. 
 
 Gifford noticed her nervousness. ' She is afraid of me,' he said 
 to himself. ' She wouldn't be, if she cared.' 
 
 ' You see, Gifford,' she began, ' I keep saying to myself every 
 moment, ' I did it it was my carelessness all, all my fault.' 
 Father tried to comfort me, and so did Mrs. Forsythe as soon 
 as she could speak ; and Mr. Denner has sent word that I must 
 not give him a thought (dear Mr. Denner !), but oh, I know ! ' 
 
 Gifford looked at her pale face, with the sweet trembling lip. 
 ' It is awfully hard for you,' he said. 
 
 ' Everyone said I was not to blame,' she went on unsteadily, 
 ' that it was not my fault ; but, Gifford, if they die, I shall have 
 been their murderer ! ' 
 
 She pressed her hands tight together to keep her self-control. 
 
 'No, Lois,' he answered gently, 'it is not right to feel that; 
 your will would be to die now for either of them ' (' Oh yes,
 
 I $4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 yes ! ' she said), ' so don't blame yourself any more than you 
 must.' 
 
 ' Than I must ? ' she repeated, slowly, looking at him with 
 questioning eyes. ' How do you mean ? They say there is no 
 blame, Gifford.' 
 
 He did not answer ; his face was full of a grieved reluctance. 
 
 ' Why,' she said, with a quick breath, ' do you blame me ? ' 
 
 Gifford put his strong, steady hand impulsively over hers. ' I 
 only know how you must blame yourself,' he said pitifully. ' I 
 wish I could bear the pain of it for you.' 
 
 ' Then you say it is my fault ? ' she asked slowly. 
 
 ' Yes, Lois,' he answered, looking down at her with anxious 
 tenderness. ' I wish I didn't have to say it, but if it is true, if 
 you were careless, it's best to meet it. I I wish you would let 
 me help you bear it.' 
 
 Lois sat up very straight, as though bracing herself against a 
 blow. 'You are right; I knew it was all my fault, I said so. 
 But there is no help now. Let us go home now, please.' 
 
 Gifford rose silently, and they went together between the 
 sweet-smelling borders, up to the rectory. ' I wish I could help 
 you,' he said wistfully, as he turned to say good-night at the foot 
 of the steps. 
 
 ' You cannot,' she answered briefly. ' No one can ; and there's 
 nothing I can do to make up for it. I cannot even die as an 
 atonement. Oh, if I could only die ! ' 
 
 Gifford walked back, distressed and shocked ; he was not old 
 enough yet to know that the desire of death is part of youth, 
 and it seemed as though he, too, had incurred a great responsi- 
 bility. ' What a brute I was to say it ! ' he said to himself. ' I 
 feel as though I had struck a woman. And it made her wish she 
 was dead good heavens ! How cruel I was ! Yet if it was 
 true, it must have been right to tell her ; I suppose it was my 
 brutal way ! ' 
 
 Lois went at once to Mrs. Forsythe's bedside, eager to hear 
 of some improvement, but the invalid only shook her head 
 wearily. 
 
 1 No, no better,' she said ; ' still breathing, that's all. But you 
 must not grieve ; it only distresses me.' 
 
 Lois knelt down, and softly kissed her hand. 
 
 ' My only trouble,' Mrs. Forsythe continued, ' is about my boy. 
 Who will take care of him when I am gone ? ' 
 
 She said,much more than this, and perhaps even Gifford's per- 
 sistent justice could not have sustained the conviction that he had 
 done right to tell Lois that the blame of the accident rested upon 
 her, if he had known the thoughts of a possible atonement which 
 passed through her mind when Mrs. Forsythe spoke thus of her 
 son. It was not the first time since her injury that she had told
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 155 
 
 Lois of her anxiety for Dick's future, and now the girl left her with 
 a dazed and aching heart. 
 
 Mrs. Dale, full of importance and authority met her in the 
 hall. 
 
 'I've got some beef-tea for Arabella Forsythe,' she said, 
 balancing the tray she carried on one hand, and lifting the white 
 napkin with the other to see that it was all right, ' if I can only 
 persuade her to take it. But there ! I must not be hard on her ; 
 she is pretty sick, I must say and how she does enjoy it. I 
 said she would. But really, Lois, if we don't have some word; 
 from that young man soon, I don't know what we shall do, for 
 she is certainly worse to-night. Your father has just had a letter 
 from somebody, saying that he went away with some friends on 
 a pleasure trip, and didn't leave his address. I thought he was 
 so anxious to get to Ashmrst well, that is Arabella's story. I 
 shouldn't wonder if he didn't see his mother alive that's all I've 
 got to say ! ' 
 
 She nodded her sleek head, and disappeared into the sick-room. 
 Lois had a sudden contraction of the heart that made her lips 
 white. ' If Aunt Deely says Mrs. Forsythe is worse, it is surely 
 very bad.' 
 
 She stumbled blindly upstairs ; she wanted to get away from 
 everybody, and look this terrible fact in the face. She found 
 her way to the garret, whose low, wide window, full of little panes 
 of heavy greenish glass, looked over the tree-tops towards the 
 western sky, still faintly yellow with sunset light, and barred by 
 long films of gray cloud. She knelt down and laid her cheek 
 against the sill, which was notched and whittled by childish hands; 
 for this had been a play-room once, and many a rainy afternoon 
 she and Helen and Gifford had spent here, masquerading in the 
 queer dresses and bonnets packed away in the green chests ranged 
 against the wall, or swinging madly in the little swing which 
 hung from the bare rafters, until the bunches of southernwood 
 and sweet marjoram and the festoons of dried apples shook on 
 their nails. She looked at the stars and hearts carved on the sill, 
 and a big ' Gifford ' hacked into the wood, and she followed the 
 letters absently with her finger. 
 
 'He blames me,' she said to herself; 'he sees the truth of it. 
 How shall I make up for it ? What can I do ? ' 
 
 She stayed by the window until the clouds turned blacic in the 
 west ; down in the heavy darkness of the garden the crickets be- 
 gan their monotonous z-z-ing, and in the locust trees the katydids 
 answered each other with a sharp, shrill cry. Then she crept 
 downstairs and sat outside of Mrs. Forsythe's room, that she 
 might hear the slightest sound, or note the flicker of the night- 
 lamp burning dimly on the stand at the bedside. 
 
 Gifford,, sitting in another sick-room, was suffering with her, and 
 blaming himself, in spite of principle.
 
 s 5 6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Mr. Denner lay in his big bed in the middle of the library. 
 The blinds were drawn up to the tops of the long, narrow win- 
 dows, that the last gleam of light might enter, but the room was 
 full of shadows, save where a taper flickered on a small table 
 which held the medicines. 
 
 1 1 think,' said Mr. Denner, folding his little hands upon his 
 breast ' I think, Gifford, that the doctor was not quite frank 
 with me to-day. I thought it proper to ask him if my injury was 
 at all of a serious nature, if it might have ah I ought to apolo- 
 gize for speaking of unpleasant things if it might have an unto- 
 ward ending. He merely remarked that all injuries had possibili- 
 ties of seriousness in them ; he appeared in haste, and anxious 
 to get away, so I did not detain him, thinking he might have an 
 important case elsewhere. But it seemed to me as though he was 
 not quite frank, Gifford ; as though, in fact, he evaded. I did not 
 press it, fearing to embarrass him, but I think he evaded.' 
 
 Gifford also evaded. ' He did not say anything which seemed 
 evasive to me Mr. Denner. He was busy charging me to remem- 
 ber your medicines, and he stopped to say a word about your bra- 
 very, too.' 
 
 Mr. Denner shook his head deprecatingly at this, but he seemed 
 pleased. ' Oh, not at all, it was nothing it was of no conse- 
 quence.' One of the shutters blew softly to, and darkened the 
 room ; Gifford rose, and leaning from the window, fastened it 
 back against the ivy which had twisted about the hinge from 
 the stained bricks of the wall. ' I cannot claim any bravery,' the 
 sick man went on. 'No. It was, as it were, accidental, Gifford.* 
 
 ' Accidental ! ' said the young man. ' How could that be ? I 
 heard the horse, and ran down the road after the phaeton just in 
 time to see you make the jump, and save her.' 
 
 Mr. Denner sighed. ' No," he replied, ' no, it was quite by 
 chance. I I was mistaken. I am glad I did not know, how- 
 ever, for I might have hesitated. As it was, laboring under a 
 misapprehension, I had no time to be afraid.' 
 
 ' I don't think I quite understand,' said Gifford. 
 
 Mr. Denner was silent. The room was so dark now, he could 
 scarcely see the young man's face as he stood leaning against one 
 of the huge bed-posts. Behind him, Mr. Denner just distinguished 
 his big secretary, with its pigeon-holes neatly labelled, and with 
 papers filed in an orderly way. No one had closed it since the 
 afternoon that he had been carried in and laid on the horse-hair 
 sofa. He had given Mary the key then, and had asked her to 
 fetch the bottle of brandy from one of the long divisions where it 
 stood beside a big ledger. The little gentleman had hesitated to 
 give trouble in asking to have it locked again, though that it 
 should be open offended his ideas of privacy. Now he looked at 
 it, and then he let his eyes rest upon the nephew of the Misses 
 Woodhouse.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 157 
 
 ' Gifford,' he said, ' would you be so obliging as to take the small 
 brass key from my ring' here he thrust his leait hand under his 
 pillow, and produced his bunch of keys, which jingled as he held 
 them unsteadily out ' and unlock the little lower drawer in the 
 left-hand side of my writing-desk ? ' 
 
 Gifford took the ring over to the candle, which made the 
 shadow of his head loom up on the opposite wall, as he bent 
 to find the little brass key among a dozen others of all shapes 
 and sizes. 
 
 1 1 have unlocked it, sir,' he said, a moment later. 
 
 'Take the candle, if you please,' responded Mr. Denner, 'and 
 you will see, I think, in the right-hand corner, back, under a small 
 roll, a flat, square parcel.' 
 
 'Yes, sir,' Gifford answered, holding the candle in his left hand, 
 and carefully lifting the parcel. 
 
 ' Under that,' proceeded Mr. Denner, ' is an oval package. If 
 you will be good enough to hand me that, Gifford. Stay will you 
 lock the drawer first, if you please, and the desk ? ' 
 
 Gifford did so, and then put the package into Mr. Denner's 
 hands. He held it for a moment before he gently removed the 
 soft, worn tissue paper in which it was wrapped ; his very touch 
 was a caress. 
 
 4 1 was desirous,' he said, ' of having this by me. It is a min- 
 iature of my little sister, sir. She perhaps you scarcely re- 
 member her? She died when I was twenty. That is forty-one 
 years ago. A long time, Gifford, a long time to have missed her. 
 She was the only thing of of that nature which I have loved since 
 I was twenty.' 
 
 He stopped and held the miniature up to look at it; but the 
 light had faded, and the ivory only gleamed faintly. 
 
 4 1 look at this every day when I am in health, and I like it by 
 rne now. No, not the candle, I thank you, Gifford I called for 
 it now (how tarnished these pearls are in the frame ! If if I 
 should not recover, it must be reset. Perhaps you will see to 
 that for me, Gifford ?) I called for it now, because I wished to 
 say, in the event of my demise, I should wish this given to one 
 of your aunts, sir.' 
 
 Gifford came out from the shadow at the foot of the bed, 
 and took Mr. Denner's hand. He did not speak ; he had only 
 the man's way of showing sympathy, and one weaker than 
 Gifford could not have resisted the piteous longing for life in 
 Mr. Denner's tone, and would have hastened to, reassure him. 
 But Gifford only held his hand in a firm, gentle grasp, and was 
 silent. 
 
 ' I should wish one of them to have it,' he continued. ' I have 
 not provided for its welfare in my will ; I had thought there was 
 no one for whom I had enough enough regard, to intrust them 
 with it. I even thought to destroy it when 1 became old. Some
 
 153 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 people might wish to carry it with them to the grave, but I could 
 not oh no, not my little sister! See, Gifford take it to the 
 light not that little merry face. I should like to think it was 
 with your aunts. And and there is, as it were, a certain propri- 
 ety in sending- it to her.' 
 
 Gifford took the miniature from the lawyer's hand, and kneel- 
 ling by the candle, looked at it. The faded velvet case held only 
 the rosy, happy face of a little child ; not very pretty, perhaps, but 
 with eyes which had smiled into Mr. Denner'sfor forty years, and 
 Gifford held it in reverent hands. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the old man, ' I would like one of them to have it.' 
 
 ' I shall remember it, sir,' Gifford answered, putting the case 
 down on the lawyer's pillow. 
 
 The room was quite still for a few moments, and then Mr. Den- 
 ner said, ' Gifford, it was quite accidental, quite by mistake, as 
 it were, that I stopped the horse for Mrs. Forsythe and little Lois. 
 I I thought, sir, it was one of your aunts. One of your aunts, 
 do you understand, Gifford ? You know what I said to you at 
 the stone bench, that afternoon ? I I alluded to myself, sir.' 
 
 Gifford was silent, almost breathless ; it all came back to him 
 the warm, still afternoon, the sunshine, the faintly rustling 
 leaves of the big silver poplar, and Mr. Denner' s friend's love- 
 story. But only the pathos and the tenderness of it showed 
 themselves to him now. He put his hand up to his eyes a mo- 
 ment ; somehow, he felt as though this was something too sacred 
 for him to see. 
 
 ' I know, sir,' he said ; ' I I see.' 
 
 ' I trust,' Mr. Denner continued, in a relieved voice, ' there is 
 no impropriety in mentioning this to you, though you are still a 
 youth. You have seemed older these last few days, more ah 
 sedate, if I may so express it. They they frequently speak as 
 though you were quite a youth, whereas it appears to me you 
 should be considered the head of the family yes, the head of the 
 family. And therefore it seemed to me fitting that I should men- 
 tion this to you, because I wished to request you to dispose of the 
 miniature. It would have been scarcely proper to do otherwise, 
 scarcely honourable, sir.' 
 
 ' I am grateful to you for doing so,' Gifford replied gently. ' I 
 beg you will believe how entirely I appreciate the honour of your 
 confidence.' 
 
 ' Oh, not at all,' said Mr. Denner, waving his hand ' not at all 
 pray do not mention it. And you will give it to one of them,' 
 he added, peering through the dusk at the young man, ' if if it 
 should be necessary ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' he answered, ' I will ; but you did not mention which 
 one, Mr. Denner.' 
 
 Mr. Denner was silent ; he turned his head wearily toward the 
 faint glimmer which showed where the window was, and Gifford
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 159, 
 
 heard him sigh. ' I did not mention which no, I had not quite 
 decided. Perhaps you can tell me which you think would lixe it 
 best ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure your choice would seem of most value to them.' 
 
 Mr. Denner did not speak ; he was thinking how he had hoped 
 that leap at the runaway horse would have decided it all. And 
 then his mind travelled back to the stone bench, and his talk with 
 Gifford, and the proverb. ' Gifford,' he said firmly, 'give it, if 
 you please, to Miss Deborah.' 
 
 They did not speak of it further. Gifford was already re- 
 proaching himself for having let his patient talk too much, and 
 Mr. Denner, his mind at last at rest, was ready to fall asleep, the 
 miniature clasped in his feverish hand. 
 
 The next day Giffcrd had no good news to carry to the rectory. 
 The lawyer had had a bad night, and was certainly weaker, and 
 sometimes he seemed a little confused when he spoke. Gifford 
 shrank from telling Lois this, and yet he longed to see her, but 
 she did not appear. 
 
 She was with Mrs. Forsythe, her aunt said ; and when he asked 
 for the invalid, Mrs. Dale shook her head. ' I asked her how she 
 felt this morning, and she said, ' Still breathing! ' But she cer- 
 tainly is pretty sick, though she's one to make herself out at the 
 point of death if she scratches her finger. Still I don't know. I 
 call her a sick woman.' 
 
 Mrs. Dale could not easily resign the sense of importance which 
 attends the care of a very sick person, even though Arabelle For- 
 sythe's appetite had unquestionably improved. 
 
 ' We've telegraphed again for her son,' she went on, ' though 
 I must say she does not seem to take his absence much to heart. 
 They are the sort of people, I think, that love each other better at 
 a distance. Now, if I were in her place, I'd be perfectly miser- 
 able without my children. I don't know what to think of his 
 not writing to her. It appears that he's on a pleasure party of 
 some kind, and he's not written a line since he started; so of 
 course she does not know where he is.' 
 
 But to Lois Mrs. Forsythe's illness was something beside inte- 
 rest and occupation. The horror of her possible death hung over 
 the young girl and seemed to sap her youth and vigor. Her face 
 was drawn and haggard, and her pleasant gray eyes had lost 
 their smile. Somehow Mr. Denner's danger, which to some extent 
 she realized, did not impress her so deeply; perhaps because that 
 was, in a manner, the result of his own will, and perhaps, too, 
 because no one quite knew how much the little gentleman suffered 
 and how near death he was. 
 
 Lois had heard Gifford's voice as she went into the sick-room, 
 and his words of blame rung again in his ears. They emphasized 
 Mrs. Forsythe's despair aTaout her son's future. She spoke to- 
 
 X
 
 500 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Lois as though she knew there was no possible chance of her 
 recovery. 
 
 ' You see, my dear,' she said, in her soft, complaining voice, 
 which sometimes dropped to a whisper, ' he has no aunts or 
 ancles to look after him when I am gone ; no one to be good to 
 him and help him to be good. Not that he is wild or foolish, 
 Lois, like some young men, but he's full cf spirit, and he needs a 
 good home. Oh, what will he do without me ? He has no one to 
 take care of him ! ' 
 
 Lois was too cruahed by misery to feel even a gleam of 
 humour, when the thought flashed through her mind that she 
 might offer to take his mother's place ; but she knew enough not 
 to express it. 
 
 ' Oh,' Mrs. Forsythe continued, ' if he were only married to 
 some sweet girl that I knew and loved, how happy I should be, 
 how content ! ' 
 
 ' I I wish he were,' Lois said. 
 
 ' My death will be so hard for him, and who will comfort him \ 
 1 am sorry I distress you by speaking so, but my dear child, on 
 your death-bed you look facts in the face. I cannot help know- 
 ing his sorrow, and it makes me so wretched. My boy my 
 poor boy ! If I could only feel easy about him ! If I thought, 
 oh, if I could just think you cared for him ! I know I ought not 
 to speak of it, but it is all I want to make me happy. I might 
 have had a little more of life, a few months, perhaps, if it had not 
 been for the accident. There, there, you mustn't be distressed; 
 but if I could know you cared for him, it would be worth dying 
 for, Lois.' 
 
 ' I do care for him ! ' Lois sobbed. ' We all do ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Forsythe shook her head. 'You are the only one I 
 want; if you tcld me you would love him I should be happy, 
 so happy! Perhaps you don't like to say it. But listen; I 
 know all about last fall,. and how you sent the poor fellow 
 away broken-hearted; but I couldn't stop loving you, for all 
 that, and I was so glad when he told me he was going to try 
 again ; and that is what he is coming down to Ashurst for. 
 Yes, he is coming to ask you. You see, I know all his secrets; 
 he tells me everything such a good boy, he is. But I've 
 told you, because I cannot die, oh ! I cannot die ! unless I know 
 how it will be for him. If you could say yes, Lois, if you 
 could!' 
 
 Her voice had faltered again, and the pallor of weariness which 
 spread grayly over her face frightened Lois. She shivered, and 
 wrung her hands sharply together. 
 
 ' Oh/ she said, ' I would do anything in the world for you but 
 but ' 
 
 ' But this is all I want/ interrupted the other eagerly. ' Pro-
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 161 
 
 this, and I am content to die. When he asks you oh, my 
 dear, my dear, promise me to say yes.' 
 
 Lois had hidden her face in the pillow. ' It was all my 
 fault, she was saying to herself; ' it is the only atonement I can 
 make.' 
 
 ' I will do anything you want me to,' she said at last. 
 
 Mrs. Forsythe laid her shaking hand on the girl's bowed head. 
 ' Oh, look at me ! You give me life when you say that. Will 
 you promise to say yes, Lois?' 
 
 She lifted her head, but she would not look into Mrs. Forsythe's 
 eyes. 
 
 'Yes,' she answered, twisting her fingers nervously together. 
 'I promise if if he wants me.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, my dear ! ' Mrs. Forsythe said, and then, to 
 Lois' horror, she burst into tears. She tried to say it was joy, 
 and Lois must not be frightened, but the young girl fled for Mrs. 
 Dale, and then ran up to the garret, and locked the door. 
 
 She went over to the western window and threw herself upon the 
 floor, her face hidden in her arms. 
 
 ' He made me do it,' she said between her sobs ; ' he said it 
 was my fault. Well, I have made up for it now. I have atoned 
 I have promised.' 
 
 She was too miserable even to take the satisfaction which belongs 
 to youth, of observing its own wretchedness. She sobbed and 
 cried without consciousness of tears. At last, for very weariness 
 and exhaustion, she fell asleep, and was wakened by hearing Mrs. 
 Dale rap sharply at the door. 
 
 ' Come, Lois, come! ' she cried. 'What's the matter? Dick 
 Forsythe is here. Do have politeness enough to come down- 
 stairs. I don't know but that his mother is a shade better, but 
 she has had a chance to die twice over, the time he's been get- 
 ting here ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE news of the anxiety in Ashurst hurried Helen's visit. She 
 might be of use, she thought, and she had better go now than a 
 week later. 
 
 Perhaps, too, she felt the necessity of caim. She had been 
 forced into a tumult of discussion and argument, which at last 
 she had begun to meet with the silence of exhaustion. Elder 
 Dean had come to see her, and she had received him at first with 
 patience, and given him her reasons for not believing in hell. 
 There had even been a moment when Helen fancied that she 
 r : ght convince him of what was so cleai and simple to her owrt 
 c. :d. But to each argument of hers he had but one reply
 
 i6a JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 * The Bible, ma'am, the Word of God, instructs us,' thus or thus 
 and he returned again and again with unwearied obstinacy to 
 his own position. After a while Helen's annoyance at the man 
 got the better of her judgment, and she wrote to him, saying she 
 did not wish to argue with him again, and must beg him not to 
 come to the parsonage to see her. 
 
 Mr. Grier, too, horrified at his "wife's reports of what Mrs. 
 Ward had said, hastened to Lockhaven to reproach and ad- 
 monish John for permitting such heresy in his household ; for 
 Mr. Grier held with St. Paul that the husband was head of the 
 wife, even to the extent of regulating her conscience. John was 
 not at home, so he turned his attack upon the real offender, as- 
 suring her that it was for her soul's sake that he thus dealt with 
 her. Helen had brought the interview to a sudden close by 
 refusing to hear further argument and bowing Mr. Grier from the 
 room, with a certain steady look from under her level brows and 
 a compression of the lips which, greatly to his surprise when he 
 thought it over, silenced him. 
 
 The talks with John could not, of course, be called painful, for 
 they were with him, but they were futile. 
 
 When the last evening came before she was to leave home, 
 He^en knew, with a dull pain of helpless remorse, that it was a 
 relief to go ; she was glad that she could not hear Elder Dean's 
 voice for a fortnight, ' or even know,' she said with a pathetic 
 little laugh to her husband, ' that she was destroying anybody's 
 hope of hell, in the parish.' 
 
 ' Yes,' John answered, ' it will be good for you to be away 
 from it all for a time. It is hard to think clearly, hurried by my 
 impatient anxiety to have you reach a certain conclusion. I 
 realize that. But I know you will try to reach it, dearest.' 
 
 Helen shook her head wearily. ' No, I am afraid I cannot 
 promise that. You must not hope that I shall ever come to 
 believe in eternal damnation. Of course I believe that the 
 consequences ef sin are eternal ; the effect upon character 
 must be eternal, and I should think that would be hell 
 enough, sometimes. But I shall never, never believe in it as 
 you do.' 
 
 ' Oh, Helen,' her husband said, ' I cannot cease to hope while I 
 have power to pray.' 
 
 Helen sighed. ' I wish you could understand how useless it 
 is, dearest, or how it hurts me, this talk of hell. For people to 
 be good for fear of hell is like saying, ' Honesty is the best 
 policy ; ' it is degrading. And it seems selfish to me, some- 
 how, to think so much about one's own salvation it is small, 
 John. The scheme of salvation that the elders talk so much 
 about really resolves itself into a fear of hell and hope of 
 heaven, all for the individual soul, and isn't that selfish ? Bat, 
 after all, this question of eternal punishment, is such a little
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 163 
 
 thing, so on the outside of the great puzzle. One goes in, and 
 in: Why is sin, which is its own punishment, in the world at 
 all ? What does it all mean, anyhow ? Where is God, and 
 why does He let us suffer here, with no certainty of a life here- 
 after ? Why does He make love and death in the same world ? 
 Oh, that is so cruel love and death together! Is He, at all? 
 Those are the things, it seems to me, one has to think about. 
 But why do I go all over it? We can't get away from it, 
 can we ? ' 
 
 'Those questions are the outgrowth of unbelief in justice,' he 
 said eagerly ; ' if you only realized justice and mercy, the rest 
 would be clear.' 
 
 She came over to him, and, kneeling down, put her head on his 
 knee. ' Oh, John, how can I leave you to-morrow ? ' 
 
 It was true that they could not drop the subject. Hour after 
 hour they had sat thus, John instructing, proving, reasoning, 
 with always the tenderest love and patience in his voice ; Helen, 
 listening with a sweet graciousness, which kept her firm negations 
 from making her husband hopeless. He had showed her, that 
 Sunday evening after the sermon on foreign missions, what he 
 felt had been his awful sin : he had deprived his people of the 
 bread of life for her sake, and for fear of jarring the perfect peace 
 of their lives, and giving her a moment's unhappiness, he had 
 shrunk from his duty to her soul. 
 
 At first Helen had been incredulous. She could not realizS that 
 her mere unbelief in any doctrine, especially such a doctrine as 
 this of eternal punishment, could be a matter of serious import- 
 ance to her husband. It needed an effort to treat his argument 
 with respect. ' What does it matter ? ' she kept saying. ' We 
 love each other, so never mind what we believe. Believe any- 
 thing you want, darling. I don't care ! Only love me, John. 
 And if my ideas offend your people, let us leave Lockhaven ; or 
 I can keep silence, unless I should have to speak for what seems 
 to me truth's sake.' 
 
 And then John tried to show her how he had wronged his 
 people, and been false to his own vows, and that he dared not 
 leave them until he had rooted out the evil his own neglect had 
 allowed to grow up among them, and that her mere silence would 
 not reach the root of the evil in her own soul. And the import- 
 ance of it ! 
 
 ' Oh,' he cried once, when they had been talking until late into 
 the night, ' is not your soul's life of importance, Helen ? When I 
 see you going down to eternal death because I have failed in my 
 duty to you, can I satisfy myself by saying, ' We love one another? 
 Because I loved you I cannot be silent. Oh, I have wronged you, 
 I have not loved you enough ! I have been content with the 
 present happiness of my love my happiness ! I had no thought 
 of yours.'
 
 164 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 So they had gone over and over the subject, until to Helen it 
 seemed threadbare, and they sat now in the dusky library, with 
 long stretches of silence between their words. 
 
 Alfaretta brought in the lamps. In view of Mrs. Ward's 
 departure for a fortnight, her father, still with an eye to wages, 
 deferred giving notice. ' Besides,' he thought, ' Mrs. Ward may 
 be convicted and converted after she's been dealt with.' 
 
 Helen had risen, and was writing some instructions for her 
 maid: just what was to be cooked for the preacher, and what 
 precautions taken for his comfort. As she put her pen down, 
 she turned to look at her husband. He was sitting, leaning- 
 forward, with his head bowed upon his hand, and his eyes 
 covered. 
 
 'Helen,' he said in a low, repressed voice, 'once more, just 
 once more, let me entreat you ; and then we will speak of this 
 before you go.' 
 
 She sighed. ' Yes, dearest, say anything you want.' 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then John rose, and stood 
 looking down at her. ' I have such a horror of your going away. 
 I do not understand it ; it is more than the grief and loneliness of 
 being without you for a few days- It is vague and indefinable, 
 but it is terribly real. Perhaps it is the feeling that atonement 
 for my sin towards you is being placed out of my reach. You 
 will be where I cannot help you or show you the truth. Yet you 
 will try to find it ! I know you will. But now, just this last 
 night, I must once more implore you to open your heart to God's 
 Spirit. Ah, my Helen, I have sinned against Heaven and before 
 you, but my punishment will be greater than I can bear if I enter 
 heaven without you ' Heaven ? My God, it would be hell ! 
 The knowledge that my sin had kept you out yet even as I speak 
 I sin.' 
 
 He was walking up and down the room, his hands knotted in 
 front of him, and his face filled with hopeless despair. 
 
 4 Yes, I sin even in this, for my grief is not that I have 
 sinned against God in my duty to His people, and in for- 
 getting Him, but that I may lose you heaven, I may make you 
 suffer ! ' 
 
 Helen came to him, and tried to put her arms about him. 
 ' Oh, my dear,' she said, ' don't you understand ? I have heaven 
 now, in your love. And for the rest oh, John, be content to 
 leave it in Hands not limited by our poor ideas of justice. If 
 there is a God, and He is good, He will not send me away from 
 you in eternity ; if He is wicked and cruel, as this theology makes 
 Him, we do not want His heaven ! We will go out into outer 
 darkness together.' 
 
 John shuddered. ' Lay not this sin to her charge,' she heard 
 him say ; ' she knows not what she says. Yet I oh, Helen, that 
 same thought has come to me ! You seemed to make my heaven
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 16$ 
 
 you ; and I was tempted to choose you and darkness rather 
 than my God. Sin, sin, sin I cannot pet away from it. Yet if 
 I could only save you ! But there again I distrust my motive : 
 not for God's glory, but for my own love's sake, I would save you, 
 My God, my God, be merciful to me a sinner ! ' 
 
 In his excitement, he had pushed her arm from his shoulder, 
 and stood in tense and trembling silence, looking up, as though 
 listening for an answer to his prayer. 
 
 Helen dared not speak. There is a great gulf fixed between 
 the nearest and dearest souls when in any spiritual anguish ; even 
 ove cannot pass it, and no human tenderness can fathom it. 
 Helen could not enter into this holiest of holies, where her 
 husband's soul was prostrate before its Maker. In the solitude of 
 grief and remorse he was alone. 
 
 It was this isolation from him which broke her calm. It 
 seemed profane even to look upon his suffering. She shrank 
 away from him, and hid her face in her hands. That roused him, 
 and in a moment the old tenderness enveloped her. 
 
 He comforted her with silent love, until she ceased to tremble, 
 and looked again into his tender eyes. 
 
 'What I wanted to say,' he said, after a while, when she was 
 leaning quietly against his breast, ' was just to tell you once 
 more the reasons for believing in this doctrine which so distresses 
 you, dearest. To say, in a word, if I could, why I lay such stress 
 upon it, instead of some of the other doctrines of the Church. It 
 is because I do believe that salvation, eternal life, Helen, depends 
 upon holding the doctrine of reprobation in its truth and entirety. 
 For see, beloved : deny the eternity of punishment, and the 
 scheme of salvation is futile. Christ need not have died, a man 
 need not repent, and the whole motive of the gospel is false ; 
 revelation is denied, and we are without God and without hope. 
 Grant the eternity of punishment, and the beauty and order of the 
 moral universe burst upon us : man is a sinner, and deserves 
 death, and justice is satisfied ; for, though mercy is offered, it is 
 because Christ has died. And His atonement is not cheapened 
 by being forced upon men who do not want it. They must accept 
 it, or be punished.' 
 
 Helen looked up into his face with a sad wonder. ' Don't you 
 see, dear,' she said, ' we cannot reason about it ? You take all 
 this from the Bible, because you believe it is inspired. I do not 
 believe it is. So how can we argue ? If I granted your premises, 
 all that you say would be perfectly logical. But I do not, John ; 
 I cannot. I am so grieved for you, dearest, because I know how 
 this distresses you ; but I must say it. Silence can never take 
 the place of truth between us.' 
 
 Oh, it did, too long, too long ! ' John groaned. ' Is there no 
 Uope ? ' and then he began his restless walk again, Helen watch 
 jig him with yearning eyes.
 
 66 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' I cannot give it up,' he said at last. 'There must be some 
 way by which the truth can be made clear to you. Perhaps the 
 Lord will show it to me. There is no pain too great for me to 
 'bear to find it out ; no, even fche anguish of remorse, if it brings 
 you to God ! Oh, you shall be saved ! Do the promises of the 
 Eternal fail ? ' 
 
 He came over to her, and took her hands in his. Their eyes 
 met. This sacrament of souls was too solemn for words or kisses. 
 When they spoke again it was of commonplace things. 
 
 It was hard for her to leave the little low-browed house the 
 next morning-. John stopped to gather a bunch of prairie roses 
 from the bush which they had trained beneath the study window, 
 and Helen fastened them in her dress; then, just as they were 
 ready to start, the preacher's wife ran back to the study, and 
 hurriedly put one of the roses from her bosom into a vase on the 
 writing-table, and stooped and gave a quick, furtive kiss to the 
 chair in which John always sat when at work on a sermon. 
 
 They neither of them spoke as they walked to the station, and 
 no one spoke to them. Helen knew there were shy looks from 
 curtained windows and peeping from behind doors, for she was a 
 moral curiosity in Lockhaven ; but no one interrupted them. 
 Just before she started, John took her hand, and held it in a 
 nervous grasp. ' Helen,' he said hoarsely, ' for the sake of my 
 eternal happiness seek for truth, seek, for truth ! ' 
 
 She only looked at him, with speechless love struggling through 
 the pain in her eyes. 
 
 The long, slow journey to Ashurst passed like a troubled dream. 
 It was an effort to adjust her mind to the different life to which 
 she was going. Late in the afternoon, the train drew up to the 
 dep6t in Mercer, and Helen tried to push aside her absorbing 
 thought of John's suffering, that she might greet her uncle 
 naturally and gladly. The rector stood on the platform, his 
 stick in one hand and his glasses in the other, and his ruddy face 
 beaming with pleasure. When he saw her he opened his arms 
 and hugged her ; it would have seemed to Dr. Howe that he was 
 wanting in affection had he reserved his demonstrations until 
 they were alone. 
 
 ' Bless my soul,' he cried, ' it is good to see you again, my 
 darling child. We're all in such distress in Ashurst, you'll do us 
 good. Your husband couldn't come with you ? Sorry for that ; 
 we want to see him oftener. I suppose he was too busy with 
 parish work that fire has kept his hands full. What ? There is 
 the carriage Graham, here's Miss Helen back again. Get in, 
 my dear ; get in. .flow give your old uncle a kiss, and then we 
 can talk as much as we want.' 
 
 Helen kissed him with all her heart; a tremulous sort of 
 happiness stole over the background of her troubled thoughts, as
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 167 
 
 ra gleam of light from a stormy sunset may flutter upon the dark- 
 aess of the clouds. 
 
 ' Tell me everything ! How is Lois ? How are the sick 
 people r How is Ashurst ? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe took up a great deal of room, sitting- well forward 
 upon the seat, with his hands clasped on his big stick, which was 
 planted between his knees, and he had to turn his head to see 
 Helen when he answered her. 
 
 4 Mrs. Forsythe is better,' he said ; ' she is certainly going to 
 pull through, though for the first week all that we heard was 
 that she was ' still breathing.' But Denner is in a bad way ; 
 Denner is a very sick man. Gifford has been with him almost 
 all the time. I don't know what we should have done without 
 the boy. Lois is all right dreadfully distressed, of course, about 
 the accident ; saying it was her fault, and all that sort of 
 thing. But she wasn't to blame ; some fool left a newspaper to 
 blow along the road and frighten the horse. She needs you to 
 cheer her up.' 
 
 ' Poor little Mr. Denner ! ' Helen exclaimed. ' I'm glad Giff is 
 with him. Has Mr. Forsythe come ?' 
 
 'Yes,' said the rector; but they are queer people, these 
 :Forsythes. The young man seems quite annoyed at having 
 been summoned ; he remarked to your aunt that there was 
 nothing the matter with his mother, and she must be moved to 
 her own house ; there was nothing so bad for her as to have a lot 
 of old women fussing over her. I wish you could have seen 
 Adele's face ! I don't think she admires him as much as she did. 
 But his mother was moved the day before yesterday, and he has a 
 trained nurse for her. Your Aunt Adele feels her occupation gone, 
 and thinks Mrs. Forsythe will die without her/ the rector chuckled. 
 ' But she won't she'll get well.' Here he gave a- heavy sigh, 
 and said, ' Poor Denner ! ' 
 
 ' You don't mean Mr. Denner won't get well ?' Helen asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' I'm afraid not,' Dr. Howe answered sadly. 
 
 They were silent for a little while, and then Helen said in a 
 hushed voice, ' Does he know it, Uncle Archie ? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe was evidently disturbed; he pulled up one of the 
 carriage windows with some violence, and a few minutes after- 
 wards lowered it with equal force. ' No, he doesn't' he repeated. 
 'The doctor only told me this morning there was no hope. Says 
 it is a question of days. He's very quiet ; does not seem to 
 suffer ; just lies there, and is polite to people. He was dreadfully 
 troubled at breaking up the whist party last Saturday ; sent 
 apologies to the other three by Gifford.' Dr. Howe tugged at his 
 gray moustache, and looked absently out of the window. 'No, I 
 don't believe he has an idea that he he won't get well.' The 
 rector had a strange shrinking from the word ' death.'
 
 i63 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' I suppose he ought to know/ Helen said thoughtfully. 
 
 'That is what the doctor said,' answered the rector ; 'told me 
 he might want to settle his affairs. But bless my soul, what 
 affairs can Denner have ? He made his will fifteen years ago, 
 and left all he had to Sarah Denner' s boy. I don't see what he 
 has to do.' 
 
 'But, uncle,' Helen said, 'mightn't he have some friends or 
 relatives to whom he would want to send a message or perhaps 
 see. People you never heard of? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, no/ responded Dr. Howe. ' I've known William Den- 
 ner, man and boy, these sixty years. He hasn't any friends I 
 don't know about; he could not conceal anything you know; 
 he is as simple and straightforward as a child. No ; Willie 
 Denner'll have his money there's not too much of it and that's 
 all there is to consider/ 
 
 ' But it is not only money/ Helen went on slowly ; ' hasn't he a 
 right to know of eternity ? Not just go into it blindly ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps so perhaps so/ the rector admitted, hiding his 
 evident emotion with a flourish of his big white silk handkerchief. 
 ' You see/ he continued, steadying his cane between his knees, 
 while he took off his glasses and began to polish them, ' the doctor 
 wants me to tell him, Helen/ 
 
 ' I suppose so/ she said sympathetically. 
 
 'And I suppose I must/ the rector went on, 'but it is 
 the hardest task he could set me. I I don't know how to 
 approach it/ 
 
 ' It must be very hard/ 
 
 ' Of course it seems natural to the doctor that I should be the 
 one to tell him. I'm his pastor, and he's a member of my 
 
 church Stay ! is he ? ' Dr. Howe thrust out his lower lip and 
 
 wrinkled his forehead, as he thought. ' Yes, oh yes, I remember 
 We were confirmed at the same time, when we were boys old 
 Bishop White's last confirmation. But he has.n't been at com- 
 munion since my day. 
 
 ' Why do you think that is, Uncle Archie ? ' Helen asked. 
 
 ' Why, my dear child, how do I know/ cried the rector. ' Had 
 his own reasons, I suppose. I never asked him. And you 
 see, Helen, that's what makes it so hard to go and tell Denner 
 that that he's got to die. Somehow, we never touched on 
 the serious side of life. I think that's apt to be the case with 
 friends in our position. We have gone fishing together since we 
 were out of pinafores, and we have played whist at least 
 I've watched him and talked politics or church business over 
 our pipes ; but never anything like this. We were simply the 
 best of friends. Ah, well, Denner will leave a great vacancy in 
 my life.' 
 
 They rode in silence for some time, and then Helen said gently, 
 'Yes, but, uncle dear, that is the only way you are going to help
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 169 
 
 him now with the old friendship. It is too late for anything- 
 else any religious aid, I mean when a man comes to look 
 death in the face. The getting ready for death has gone, and it 
 is death itself, then. And I should think it would be only the 
 friend's hand and the friend's eyes, just the human sympathy, 
 which would make it easier. I suppose all one can do is to say, 
 ' Let my friendship go with you through it all all this unknown 
 to us both." 
 
 Dr. Howe turned and looked at her sharply ; the twifight had 
 fallen, and the carriage was very dark. 'That's a heathenish 
 thing to say, Helen, and it is no* so. The consolations of religion 
 belong to a man in death as much as in life ; they ought not to be- 
 long more to death than to life, but they do, sometimes. It isn't 
 that there is not much to say to Denner. It is the the unusualness 
 of it, if I can so express it. We have never touched on such things, 
 I tell you, old friends as we are ; and it is awkward, yo 1 .; 
 understand.' 
 
 They were very quiet for the rest of the long drive. They stopped 
 a moment at Mr. Denner's gate ; the house was dark, except for 
 a dim light in the library and another in the kitchen, where Mary 
 sat poring over her usual volume. GifTord came out to say there- 
 was no change, and opened the carriage door to shake hands with 
 Helen. 
 
 ' He would have prayers to-night,' he said to the rector, still! 
 talking in a hushed voice, as though the spell of the sick-room 
 were on him out under the stars, in the shadows of the poplar 
 trees. ' He made Willie read them aloud to Mary, he told me ; 
 he said it was proper to observe such forms in a family, no matter 
 what the conditions might be. Imagine Willie stumbling through 
 Chronicles, and Mary fast asleep at her end of that big dark 
 dining-room ! ' 
 
 Gifford smiled, but the rector was too much distressed to be 
 amused ; he shivered as they drove away. 
 
 'Ah ! ' he said sharply, * how I hate that slam of a carriage- 
 door ! Makes me think of but one thing. Yes, I must see him 
 to-morrow. I must tell him to-morrow.' 
 
 The rector settled back in his corner, his face darkening with a. 
 grieved and troubled frown, and they did not speak until they 
 reached the rectory gate. As it swung heavily back against the 
 group of white lilacs behind it, shaking out their soft, penetrating 
 fragrance into the night air, someone sprang towards the carriage, 
 and almost before it stopped stood on the steps, and rapped with 
 impatient joy at the window. 
 
 It was Lois. She had thrown afilmy white scarf about her head, 
 and had come out to walk up and down the driveway, and listen 
 for the sound of wheels. She had not wanted to stay in the house, 
 lest Mr. Forsythe might appear. 
 
 Lois had scarcely seen him since he arrived, though this was
 
 fjo JOHN WARD, PREACHER, 
 
 not because of his devotion to his mother. He spent most of his 
 time lounging about the post-office, and swearing that Ashurst 
 was the dullest, deadest place on the face of the earth." He had 
 not listened to Lois' self-reproaches, and insisted that blame must 
 not even be mentioned. He was quite in earnest, but strangely 
 awkward. Lois, weighed down by the consciousness of her promise, 
 felt it was her fault, yet dared not try to put him at his ease, and 
 fled, at the sound of his step, to her refuge in the garret. She 
 did not feel that her promise to Mrs. Forsythe meant that she 
 must give opportunity as well as consent. But Dick did not force 
 his presence upon her, and he was very uncomfortable and distrait 
 when at the rectory. 
 
 She need not have feared his coming again that evening'. He 
 was in the library of his mother's house, covering many pages of 
 heavy crested notepaper with his big, boyish writing. Strangely 
 enough, however, for a young gentleman in love with Miss Lois 
 Howe, he was addressing in terms of ardent admiration some one 
 called ' Lizzie.' 
 
 But in the gladness of meeting Helen, Lois almost forgot him. 
 Her arms around her cousin's neck, and Helen's lips pressed 
 against her wet cheek, there was nothing left to wish for, except 
 the recovery of the two sick people. 
 
 ' Oh, Helen ! Helen ! Helen ! ' she cried hysterically, while Dr. 
 Howe flourishing his silk handkerchief, patted them both without 
 discrimination, and said, ' There, my dear ! there, there ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AFTER Helen had gone, John Ward went back to the parsonage, 
 dazed and stupefied by the exhaustion of the moral conflict which 
 for nearly a month had strained every fibre of his soul. 
 
 The house seemed dark and empty. His face brightened a 
 moment, as he sat wearily down at his writing-table and saw the 
 prairie rose in the slender vase. He leaned his head on his hand, 
 and drew the flower towards him, touching it with gentle fingers, 
 as though he caressed the bloom of Helen's cheek. Then he 
 pushed it in front of her picture, which stood always on the same 
 table, and thought vaguely that he would leave it there until she 
 put a fresh one in its place. 
 
 And so his thoughts came heavily back to the old grief and 
 anxiety. He went over all the arguments he had used, and saw 
 new points and reasons which he had neglected to give, and he 
 even drew his pen and paper towards him, and began to make 
 some notes. He would send them to her ; and, away from him, 
 surely what he should say would have an added force. 
 
 Yet he could not fix his mind upon his subject. He found
 
 OHN WARD, PREACHER. 17* 
 
 himself heavily conscious of the silence of the house ; and by- 
 and-by he rose and went upstairs to their bed-room, standing 1 
 drearily in the centre of the floor, and looking ''about at his own 
 loneliness. He lifted a bit of lace upon her dressing-table, and 
 smoothed it between his fingers, noting the faint scent of orris 
 which it held. Again that strange, unreasonable fear of her 
 absence seized him, and he was glad to go out and find some 
 pressing occupation to forget it. 
 
 When he started (as he had had to do of late), alone, for 
 prayer-meeting, his mind was dulled by its own pain of anxiety, 
 and he went absently through the services, saying little, and 
 'opening' the meeting as soon as he could. After that, he sat 
 with head bent and arms folded, scarcely hearing what was said. 
 
 Just before he pronounced the benediction, however, Elder 
 Dean rose, and, stepping with elaborate quiet to the pulpit, 
 handed him a note, and sat down again, covering his face with 
 a big horny hand, and swinging one foot nervously. John opened 
 the folded paper and held it up to one of the tall lamps beside 
 his desk, for the writing was dim and crabbed, and the light poor, 
 and then read a call that the Session should meet immediately 
 after the prayer-meeting. No object for consideration was 
 named, and the paper was signed by Mr. Dean and another 
 elder. John put it down, and noticing that his four elders sat 
 together on one of the bare settees, omitted the usual request 
 that they should all remain. 
 
 The little congregation gradually dispersed. Then Elder Dean 
 arose, and, creaking heavily down the aisle, closed and locked 
 the front door, and put out four of the lamps in the back of 
 the room for economy's sake. After that he sat down again 
 on the settee beside the three other elders, and the lecture-room 
 was silent. 
 
 John looked up, and waited for someone to speak, then, suddenly 
 recalling his duty of moderator, he called the Session to order, 
 and asked the reason for meeting. 
 
 Mr. Johnson, who was the youngest elder in the church, 
 shuffled his feet under the bench, coughed slightly, and looked 
 at his colleagues. Mr. Bent and Mr. Smith kept their eyes- 
 upon the ground, and Mr. Dean folded and unfolded his arms 
 several times. 
 
 'Brethren,' said the preacher, 'we have asked the blessing 
 of God upon the deliberations of this Session ; it now remains 
 to bring the business before it.' 
 
 Mr. Dean poked Mr. Smith furtively, who replied in a loud 
 whisper, ' It is your place, Brother Dean.' 
 
 The elder's face turned a dull mottled red ; he felt John's 
 surprised eyes upon him. Under cover of blowing his nose violently, 
 he rose, and, shifting from one foot to the other, he glanced* 
 imploring-ly at his companions. But no one spoke.
 
 -2 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' Brother Ward,' he began at last, opening and shutting his 
 mouth until his upper lip looked like a hooked beak, ' this Session 
 has been called for the consideration of of the spiritual condition 
 of this church. The duties of the elders of a church are heavy, 
 .and painful and and large. But they are discharged they 
 are always, 'said Mr. Dean, inflating his chest, and raising one 
 hand, ' discharged ! The church expects it, and the church is not 
 disappointed. Yet it is most terribly painful, sometimes most 
 awful and unpleasant.' 
 
 Here Mr. Dean stopped, and coughed behind his hand. Mr. 
 Johnson crossed his legs, and glanced back at the door as though 
 -calculating his chances of escape. The other two men did not 
 look up. Elder Dean had no reason to fear that he had not the 
 attention of the moderator. John was watching him with 
 turning eyes. 
 
 ' Proceed,' he said. 
 
 ' Well," he continued, ' as we always perform our painful, most 
 painful duties, we are here to-night. We are here to-night, Mr. 
 Moderator, to consider the spiritual weifare of the church, and of 
 one especial soul connected with the church. This soul is is far 
 from grace ; it is in a lost condition ; a stranger to God, an alien 
 from the commonwealth of Israel. But that is not all. No. It 
 is ah spreading its own disease of sin in the vitals of the-church. 
 It is not only going down to hell itself, but it is dragging others 
 along with it. It is to consider the welfare of that soul, Brother 
 Ward, that this Session has been convened. It is a very difficult 
 task which is set before us, but we are sustained by duty by duty, 
 sir ! We will not have to reproach ourselves for neglect of an 
 immortal soul. We wish to summon ' 
 
 ' Do you refer,' said John Ward, rising, his hands clenched 
 upon the pulpit rail, his face rigid and his teeth set ' do you 
 refer to my wife ? ' 
 
 The three men on the bench started as though they had received 
 a galvanic shock. Elder Dean, with his lips parted, looked at 
 his minister in silence. 
 
 ' Answer me,' said John Ward. 
 
 ' Mr. Moderator,' replied the elder in a quavering voice, ' If I 
 do refer to your wife, that is not the way it is to be considered. I 
 refer to a sin-sick soul. I refer to a poor neglected sinner, who must 
 be saved ; yes, sir. saved. If she happens to be yoir wife, I I 
 am sorry.' 
 
 The room was very silent. The flaring lamps shone on the bare, 
 whitewashed walls and on the shamed faces of the four men; 
 the shadows in the corners pressed upon the small centre of 
 light. One of the lamps smoked, and Mr. Bent rose to turn it 
 down, and a deeper gloom settled upon the group. Mr. Johnson 
 urly opened a hymn-book, and began to turn the pages.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 173 
 
 For a moment the rustle of the paper was the only sound that 
 broke the quiet. 
 
 John Ward, appalled and angry, humiliated that his most 
 sacred grief was dragged from his heart to be gazed at and dis- 
 cussed by these men, was yet silenced by his accusing 1 con- 
 science. 
 
 ' There is no need,' he said at last, with painful slowness, and 
 breathing hard, 'to bring this matter before the Session. As 
 preacher of this church, I prefer to deal with that soul according 
 to the wisdom God gives me. I neither ask nor desire your 
 advice.' . 
 
 Elder Dean turned to his companions, and raised his hands 
 slightly. Mr. Smith responded to his look by rising and saying, 
 still gazing fixedly upon the floor, 'This ain't the way, Brother 
 Ward, to consider this matter. Your wisdom ain't enough, seein' 
 that it has allowed things to get to this pass. All we desire is to 
 deal wiht Mrs. Ward for her own good. Brother Dean speaks of 
 the evil in the church ain't it our duty to check that ? It 
 appears, sir, that, preacher of this church or not, you've allowed 
 her sin of unbelief to remain unreproved, and the consequence is 
 its spread in the church : that's what we're responsible for ; 
 that's our duty. If you've neglected your duty, we ain't a-goin' 
 to neglect ours.' He wagged his head emphatically, and then 
 sat down. 
 
 John Ward was too entirely without self-consciousness to feel 
 the change in the tone of these men. Their old sincerely felt 
 admiration and awe of their preacher was gone. The moment 
 they became his critics, they ceased to feel his superiority. Dis- 
 approval was power, and their freedom from the trammels of respect 
 made them cruel. But the outcry of John's conscience made him 
 deaf to smaller things. He sat bending forward, his hands locked 
 together, and the veins in his forhead standing out like whip-cord ; 
 his lips were white and compressed. 
 
 Mr. Dean got on his feet again, with much less embarrassment 
 in his manner. Mr. Smith's share in the responsibility was a 
 great relief. 
 
 ' It is exactly as Brother Smith says,' he said. ' If it was just 
 just her, we wouldn't, perhaps, meddle, though I ain't sure 
 but what it would be our duty. But the church we have got to 
 protect it. We would wish to summon her, and see if we can 
 bring her to a realizing sense of her condition before proceeding 
 to any extreme measure. If she remained in a hardened state, it 
 would then be our duty to bring charges and proof. And we 
 should do it, bein' supported by a sense of duty and by the 
 grace of God.' 
 
 Here Mr. Johnson rose, rather noisily, and Mr. Dean looked 
 at him impatiently.
 
 174 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' He'll spoil it all,' he muttered, as he sat down between Mr. 
 Smith and Mr. Bent. 
 
 ' I just want to say,' said Mr. Johnson, in a quick, high voice/ 
 'that I'm not in sympathy with this meeting.' 
 
 John looked at him easterly. 
 
 ' It is my idea that these sort of things never do. The day has 
 passed for forcing people into believing things yes, sir and it 
 doesn't do any good, anyhow. Now, my advice would be, don't 
 disturb things, don't break up the peace. I'm for peace and: 
 quiet and a happy life, before anything else. Just^lets not say 
 anything about it. There's nothing, brethren, like argument for 
 disturbing a church or a h&me. I know it; I'm a married man. 
 And I just adv ise you to keep quiet. Use your influence in a quiet, 
 easy way, but nothing else. Maybe it will come out all right, 
 after all.' 
 
 He sat dowr again, and Mr. Dean and Mr. Smith began to 
 whisper to hir/ with evident indignation. 
 
 But the p eacher's face was full of doubt and grief. ' No,' 
 he said at I; <5t, moving his dry lips with a visible effort, ' we 
 cannot conquer sin by hiding it or forgetting it, and I believe that 
 this Session has the welfare of the church sincerely at heart ; but 
 I do not believe the plan you propose will profit either the church- 
 or the soul of whom you speak. Her absence at present would, 
 at all events make it necessary to defer any action. In the 
 meantime, I believe that the Lord will teach me wisdom, and will 
 grant grace and peace to her whose welfare is the subject of your 
 pravers. If I reach any conclusion in the matter which you ought 
 to know, I will communicate with you. If there is no further 
 motion, this meeting is adjourned.' 
 
 The elders rose, and with the exception of Mr. Johnson, retreated 
 in embarrassed haste. They ducked their heads, and made a 
 guttural noise in their throats, as though to say good-night; but 
 they were ashamed to speak to him, though Mr. Bent said, as he 
 turned his back on the preacher, ' We'll ah pray for her.' 
 
 Mr. Johnson stopped to justify his presence, and say again, 
 ' Don't notice it, Mr. Ward. I'd just gently like bring her round 
 some time; keep on prayin', an' all that, but don't force it. It 
 will only make trouble for you.' 
 
 John hurried away from him, stung to the quick. This, then, 
 was his own real attitude ; this was what his plea of wisdom had 
 meant this last year. His own deceit loomed up before his soul, 
 and the sky of faith grew black. One by one, the accusations 
 of the elders repeated themselves to him, and he made no protest. 
 His assenting conscience left him absolutely defenceless.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 175 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THERE was a strange unreality about Helen's wakening, the first 
 morning in Ashurst. 
 
 The year in Lockhaven seemed to have made as little change as 
 a dream. Here she was, back in her old room. How familiar 
 everything looked ! Her little white bed ; the old cherry-wood 
 dressing-case, with its shining brass rings and spotless linen- 
 cover; the morning sunshine dancing with the shadows of the 
 leaves, and falling in a golden square upon the floor ; the cur- 
 tains at the south window blowing softly to and fro in the fresh 
 wind, and the flutter of wings outside in the climbing roses ; 
 even the bunch of white lilacs on the little table, apparently all 
 just as she had left them nearly a year ago. Lockhaven and 
 theology were behind her, and yet in some indefinable way she 
 was a stranger in a strange land. 
 
 The consciousness of a difference had come the night tifcfore, 
 when Lois poured out her fears and griefs to her cousin (all 
 except her promise to Mrs. Forsythe) as soon as they were 
 alone. 
 
 Lois felt no difference. Helen had been away for a long 
 time, but she was still the same Helen to her ; strong, and true, 
 and gentle, with perhaps a little more gravity in her eyes, but 
 Lois was so grave herself she did not notice that. Whereas 
 with Helen there was a dual life : the one, absorbing, passionate, 
 and intense ; the other, a memory a tender, beautiful past, no 
 longer a necessity. 
 
 Helen's joy 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 strange- 
 ness 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 
 anyone else, she almost forgot to notice it herself, but only knew 
 that all the time, under all her sympathy with Ashurst joys and 
 sorrows most sorrows, now was a deep, still current of thought 
 floating towards her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Dale had been the first one to come in, it, 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. 
 
 L
 
 e;6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 '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 a 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 the manner of her 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 sec him this morning, brother, and tell him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Dr. Howe, sighing, ' I suppose I must, but it 
 <ipes 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 bed- 
 side 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, 
 varm grasp
 
 . JOHiN WARD, PREACHER. 177 
 
 4 Thank you,' replied Mr. Denner, with laboring breath, ' I am 
 
 doing- very nicely. 
 
 ' Has Giff been here thii morning? ' atked Dr. Howe. 
 
 ' Yes,' the lawyer answered. ' He hagone home for an hour. 
 Mary takes excellent care of me, and I felt I was really keep- 
 ing him too much from hi aunts. For his stay is limited, you 
 know, and I am afraid I hive 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 
 depressed about you she begs 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 Giff ord's kindness, and how 
 good everyone 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. Dfnner ended, folding his little hands on the counter- 
 pane, ' it is worth while to have had this indisposition (except for 
 the trouble it has given to others) just to see how good everyone 
 is. Gifford has been exceedingly kind and thoughtful. Hisgentle- 
 ness for I have been very troublesome, doctor has been wonder- 
 ful. 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 yester- 
 day 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 trem- 
 bling 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 '
 
 178 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Stay,' interrupted Mr. Denner, with a visible effort at com- 
 posure, ' I I quite understand. Pray spare yourself the pain of 
 speaking of it, Archibald. You are very kind, but I quite under- 
 stand.' 
 
 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 con- 
 sequence, 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 him- 
 self, 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 gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 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 hi& 
 eyes. ' Ah you are very good to say so, I'm sure,' he replied 
 courteously. 
 
 Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and reclasping. 
 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.' 
 
 'Ay 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 con- 
 tinued; '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: 
 _geutly, and without waiting for a reply began to say, withi
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 17$ 
 
 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 youVill 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 waa a 
 tightening in his throat that kept him silent. When he came 
 back to the bedside, he stood looking down at the sick man, with- 
 out 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 up so weakly that you feel that it can- 
 not 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 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 y<?v will. Yet, though I may not have lived it, 
 \Villiam, I cannot answer you as anything but a Christian man 
 now.' 
 
 ' Just so,' said Denner politely ' ah certainly ; but, between 
 ourselves, doctor, putting aside this amiable and pleasing view
 
 I to JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 of the church, you understand speaking just as we arj 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 Iook2d into them, and then 
 wavered and turned away. 
 
 ' DC 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 sup- 
 posed 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 dose. 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.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. i8 
 
 "The warm precincts of the cheerful day,'' he murmured, 
 and then his eyes wandered about the room : the empty, blackened 
 fire-place, 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, won- 
 dering 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, hisd^a-ys 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. After- 
 wards, 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 
 eaid softly, ' ' In the hour of death, and in the day of judg- 
 ment 
 
 ' ' 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 rector ? ' 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 were 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 someone to save her fron* 
 T tete-d-tlte.
 
 *82 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 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 anyone 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 
 tnto 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 Wood- 
 house. 
 
 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' 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 objec- 
 tionable young man, Lois' grief turned his gladness into pain, and 
 there was no hope for himself in his relief at Dick's departure.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 183 
 
 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 frank- 
 est grief, ' you don't say so ! ' 
 
 ' Haven't you just heard him say so, sister ? ' asked Miss De- 
 borah, 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 an- 
 swered, and the two sisters turned to go into the house, importance 
 and grief on both their faces ; but Miss Deborah suddenly recol- 
 lected 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 ? v 
 
 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
 
 1 84 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 above her. When she was quite out of hearing, Miss Deborah 
 said mysteriously : 
 
 ' Well, perhaps, I might tell you ; you are not like anyone else. 
 Ruth thinks I cannot keep a secret, but then you known 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 anyone ; but it was only natural to 
 speak of it to dear Ruth and to you." 
 
 Gifford did not want to hear more. ' I must go,' he said hur- 
 riedly. ' 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 anyone, 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 sometime 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. Hut, before the swinging 
 mirror of her high bureau, she thought it looked too light and 
 bright for so sad a visit, and so trotted upstairs to the garret, and, 
 standing on tip-toe 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 mourn-
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 185 
 
 insf 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 must 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 awakened, with a bright, clear look 
 in his face. ' It occurs to me,' he said, 'that I have another
 
 c6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 portrait, of no value at all compared with the miniature (and o! 
 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 the 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 after 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,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 187 
 
 ma'arn ; ' 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 dim- 
 ness 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 Rvth the picture, sir,' 
 
 ' Oh yes, just so, just so. 1 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 honoured by its 
 acceptance. And perhaps you will be good enough to to 
 convey the assurance of my esteem to Miss Deborah. And Gif- 
 ford my friend Gifford is to give her the miniature of my littlfr 
 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 wearysr 
 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 mad* 
 famous and necessary.
 
 :88 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 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 pros- 
 trating 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 sorrows 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. Busi- 
 ness, 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 words did. 
 
 She had accepted very complacently Lois' 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 that 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 ? Cer- 
 tainly, Mrs. Forsythe herself seemed to consider her recovery a 
 matter of grave doubt, and Lois' anxiety was quick to agree with 
 her. 
 
 So she went about with a white face, and eyes from which all 
 the careless gaiety had gone, simply bearing her life with a dull 
 pain and in constant fear. Gifford saw it, and -nisuuderstood it : 
 he thought, in view of what Miss Deborah jnd told him, and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 189 
 
 what he knew of Mrs. 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 all this over, and tried to see what his life 
 offered him for the future, now that the last faint hope of winning 
 Lois' love had died. Mr. Denner's will had been read that morn- 
 ing 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 
 Tokey, '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 valueless belong- 
 ings ! 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 the 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 labelled with the writer's name, and the date of their 
 arrival. These Gifford burned, and the blackened ashes were in
 
 I 9 6 . JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 the \v:ue 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 been 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 gentle- 
 man 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 this 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 comort her. Then, when he is at the rectory, what 
 makes him pay 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 someone come 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 th 
 Secretary, and lifting the flap to lock it as ho spoke.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 191 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 thankeil 
 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. ' It 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. 
 
 4 Yes,' Giffoid 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 coloured 
 porcupine quills. 
 
 4 Yes, Mr. Denner smoked,' Gifford was constrained to say. 
 
 4 1 think,' said Dick; clapping his hand upon his breast-pocket, 
 4 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. 4 No objection, 1 
 suppose ? ' he added, carefully biting off the end of his cigar. 
 
 'I should prefer,' Gifford replied slowly, 4 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. 4 The old 
 gentleman smoked himself, though.' 
 
 Gifford's face flushed slowly, and he spoke with even more de- 
 liberation than usual. ' Since you have decided not to smoke, 
 
 u
 
 l$ JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 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-bye, Mr. Wood- 
 house. I suppose I shan'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 ceaseles* 
 smile was torn to pieces. Instead of that, however, he folded hit 
 arms, and stood looking down at his companion in silence. 
 
 Dick had seated himself again, and was twirling his wet um- 
 brella 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 dpes 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 midways, 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. 4 You may not care for his in- 
 terest,' 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 
 Ashur&t ? ' 
 
 ' No right,' Gifford said calmly. 
 
 ' Why don't you speak out like a man ? ' Forsythe demanded
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 193 
 
 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 vice upon his collar. There were no words. Dick's strug- 
 gles 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 For- 
 sythe 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 door- 
 way, as though to offer him a chance of revenge. 
 
 ' Damn you ! ' he screamed, furious with passion. ' I'll pay you 
 
 for this ! 1 I ' He choked with rage, and shook his fist at 
 
 the motionless figure on the steps, Then, trembling with impo- 
 tent fury, oaths stumbling upon his lips, be 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 1 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 ijpon For- 
 sytttc, Gifford's relentless justice overtook him. Had he not
 
 194 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 given Forsythe the right to insult him ? Would not he have pro- 
 tected himself against any man's prying? Gifford blushed hotly 
 in the darkness. ' But not to use Lois' name not that ! Nothing 
 could justify the insult to her ! ' 
 
 Mary came in to lock up, and started with fright at the sight ol 
 fre 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 De- 
 borah'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 a quiet 
 determination not to be fussed over. The sisters heard him walk 
 quickly upstairs 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, murmu r ed to herself, 'I wonder what De- 
 borah 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 har^. Yet he 
 thought he had found a. means of revenge. 
 
 lu spite of the rain ; he had gone to the rectory. Helen was
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 19$ 
 
 writing to her husband, and Dr. Howe was reading. 'You'll have 
 to see him in the parlor, Lois, 1 her father said, looking at her over 
 bis 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 everyone 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 to 
 gether. 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 
 though^ will be,' he said meaningly. ' You make Ashurst 
 beautiful.' 
 
 He saw the color, which had rushed to her face when he had
 
 i 9 5 JOHK WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 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 towards 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 nev<sr can forget your kind- 
 ness, 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 speechless. 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 pros- 
 pects ! 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 men- 
 tion it. Mother was right when she said I could have her for the 
 asking I ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HELEN'S desire to get back to John made her decide to start on 
 Monday, instead of waiting until Wednesday, whe'n the fortnight 
 she had planned for her visit ended. 
 
 ' I must go,' she said, smiling at Dr. Howe's railings. ' I can- 
 not stay away from home any longer. And you'll come soon, 
 Lois dear 1 ' 
 
 Even dail) letters from John had not saved her" from home* 
 pickness. 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 tier to write v./i me- 
 diately upon its receipt, and answer it point by ^int. 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 doc- 
 trine 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 bcauU-
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. itf 
 
 ful 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' 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' 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 TMBS 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 ram before the day is over, my dear,' he said, as 
 he put her into the carriage, ' and that will make it better travel- 
 ling 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 in- 
 stead 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 t Dread.' 
 
 1 1t will hardly last all the way to Lockhaven,' Lois conv 
 mented. 
 
 ' 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 travelling-bag
 
 io8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 and some books on the opposite seat of the carriage. ' I shall 
 just have time to say good-bv 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 walching 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 : nto 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' face now, which did not 
 rscape 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 
 1 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.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 199 
 
 ' 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 hastened 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 earnest- 
 ness 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, begin- 
 ning to cut the long stems close to the roots ; ' it always looks so 
 well in the blue jug.' 
 
 His back was towards her, and perhaps that gave him 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 concern- 
 ing Mr. Forsythe' s departure ? He despised himself if it were
 
 joo JOHN WARD, PREACHER, 
 
 a test, but he did not stop to follow the windings of his own mo- 
 tives. 
 
 ' Abroad ? ' Lois said, in a quick, breathless way. ' Does he go 
 abroad ? ' 
 
 Gifford felt her excitement and suspense without seeing it, and 
 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 she 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 colour come and go on Lois' sad 
 little face, and her lip tremble, and her eyes fill, and then, drop' 
 ping 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 co- 
 vered. 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 ision, in which he saw himself bringing Dick 
 Forsythe back to Ashurst, and planting him forcibly at Lois' 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 teii you ail about it before 
 they go ; probably they had their own reasons for not doing it be- 
 fore they left Ashurst your health, perhaps. But no doubt,
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 101 
 
 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. For- 
 sythe, 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 wa- 
 to protect her from herself; she must not think she had betrayed 
 herself, and fancy that Gifford had guessed her engagement. 
 Tie 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 sud- 
 denness 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' face had settled into 
 its white apathy, which was almost despair. ' I think I'll go in, 
 Giff,' she said. ' I am so tired.' 
 
 1 Won't you fix the roses ? ' he smiled. 
 
 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
 
 *o JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 brought it out, and laid his flowers in it, a little clumsily, per- 
 haps, 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 ex- 
 cuse for putting a match to the dreary 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 upstairs 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 stretched 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 'Thn;e Guardsmen,' in a 
 ragged yellow cover, was astride his knee, but now he was con- 
 tent 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 aod comfortable, for he was equally indifferent 
 both to the bishop and his rebellious clergyman. There was a 
 cup of muffled wine simmering by his brass dogs, and the fire 
 sputtered and sung softly. Max, with the nose between his 
 paws, watched it with sloepy eyes. The little tinge of melan- 
 choly in Dr. Howe's face did not interfere with a look of quiet 
 atisfaction with life ; perhaps, indeed, it gave an added charm
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 203 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man 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 subtle 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 analyse 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 iFhso he preferred to say to himself 
 that all was well. The child had got 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' 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 
 Bpice, and said to himself, listening to the beat of the ram 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,
 
 04 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' Lord I ' 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 un- 
 seeing. 
 
 '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 
 recognised 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 lick- 
 ing 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 sidt tw
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 105 
 
 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 anyone, uncle.' 
 
 In spite of the wildness of her words, it was not a delirious 
 woman who was speaking to him, as he 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 clinging 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 upstairs 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.' 
 
 1 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 . 
 1 shall never see my husband again, Uncle Archip, she added 
 piteously, 
 
 1 Why why why ! ' cried Dr. Howe. ' Bless my soul, what's 
 all this? Mr. Ward says my niece is not to return to her 
 huuband ! 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 
 upstairs 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 corne 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 J' 
 could not fail to arouae Lois, and she called out drowsily* ' Good- 
 flight, father dear. Is anything, the matter ? '
 
 W6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 'Nothingnothing! ' 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 b &r 
 bed to rush to her cousin. ' What is it,' she gasped, as *he 
 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' 
 shoulders, and pushed her gently back into her room. ' I had to 
 come back, Lois,' she said. ' I will tell you why to-morrow, 
 am too tired now. Don't speak to me, please, dear.' 
 
 The rector had hurried down the entry to find Jean, who n, 
 deed needed no rousing, for Sally had told her who had com.'. 
 ' 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 de- 
 canter 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 sup- 
 port. 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 jorch. These small interests quieted the rector, and he 
 was able so-m to reason himself into the belief that his niece's 
 return was a trifling affair, perhapi a little uncomfortable.- and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. *7 
 
 certainly silly, but he would soon make it all right ; so that wh^n 
 he saw her coming slowly downstairs, 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 pretence of eating. Once or 
 twice, when Lois' 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 anyone 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 is for 
 ever. 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 con- 
 fidence by declaring that we would live apart. I should have 
 given you credit for more sense indeed I should.' 
 
 Hiilen 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 maka 
 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.' 
 
 M
 
 *o* JOHN WARD, PREACHER- 
 
 ' I did not intend to be severe, my child,' the rectoi 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. 
 
 1 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 wa". 
 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 punish- 
 ment. 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 remove 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 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 wi\h anger, while 
 iie 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 to 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 say, and also the Atonement,
 
 , PREACHB&. *v> 
 
 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 preaches 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, gesticu- 
 lating 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 ! ' 
 
 ' I cannot hear you speak so of my husband,' Helen said very 
 quietly, but it caused Dr. Howe to conceal his wrath. 
 
 ' He'll think differently in a day or two,' he said. ' This nonsense 
 won't last.' 
 
 Then Helen, having exhausted all her arguments to show that 
 John was immovable, said : ' Let me read you what he says 
 himself; and then you will understand, perhaps, how real it all is 
 to him, and how he cannot help it.' 
 
 ' Bah ! ' cried Dr. Howe, and certainly it was trying to have 
 
 Helen attempt to excuse such folly. ' I've no patience with 
 
 There, there ! I didn't mean to lose my temper, but bless my soul, 
 this is the worst thing I ever knew. See here, Helen, if the man 
 is so determined, you'll have to change your views, or go back to 
 your old views, I mean I don't know what you do believe that's 
 all there is about it.' 
 
 Helen was unfolding John's letter, and she looked up at hd 
 ancle with a fleeting smile. ' Change my views so that I can go 
 back ? Do you think that would satisfy John ? Do you think I 
 could ? Why, Uncle Archie, do you believe in eternal damnation ? 
 I know you pray to be delivered from it in the Litany, but do you 
 believe in it ? ' 
 
 ' That has nothing to do with the question, Helea,' he answered, 
 frowning, ' and of course I believe that the consequences of sin 
 are eternal.' 
 
 'You know that it not tr&st the prayer means,' she insisted; 
 ' you have to put your private interpretation upon it. Well, it is 
 my private interpretation which John think* is sin, and sin which 
 will receive what it denies.' 
 
 ' Well, you must believe it, then,' the rector said, striking his 
 6st on the ana of bis chair ; ' it is a wife's place to yield, and while 
 ! acknowledge it i all-folly, yon raest fire m.'
 
 Jto JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' You mean,' she said, ' that I must say I believe it. Can I 
 change a belief ? You know I cannot, Uncle Archie. And when 
 you hear what John says, you will see I must be true, no matter 
 where truth leads me.' 
 
 Helen knew every word of that letter by heart. She had read 
 it while she drove towards the d^pot, and when she dismissed the 
 carriage it was with a vague idea of flying to Lockhaven, and 
 brushing all this cobweb of unreason away, and claiming her right 
 to take her place at her husband's side. But as she sat in the 
 station, waiting, every sentence in the letter began to burn into 
 her heart, and she slowly realized that she could not go back. 
 The long day passed, and the people, coming and going, looked 
 curiously at her ; one kindly woman seeing the agony in her 
 white face, came up and asked her if she were ill, and could she 
 help her. Helen stared at her like a person in a dream, and shook 
 her head. Then, in a numb sort of way, she began to understand 
 that she must go back to Ashurst. She did not notice that it had 
 began to rain, or think of a carriage, but plodded, half blind and 
 dazed, over the country road to her old home, sometimes sitting 
 down, not so much to rest as to take the letter from its envelope 
 again and read it. 
 
 She looked at it now, with a sudden gasp of pain ; it was as 
 though a dagger had been turned in a wound. It seemed too 
 sacred to read to Dr. Howe, but it was just to John that it should 
 be heard, even if only partly understood ; and it was also just to 
 her for Helen had one of those healthy souls which could be just 
 to itself. With the letter had come a clear and logical statement 
 of the doctrine of reprobation, together with the arguments 
 and reasons for holding it ; besides this, there was a list of 
 books which he meant to send her. All these she handed to 
 her uncle. 
 
 'I will not read you all he writes,' she said, 'but even a little 
 will show you the hopelessness of thinking I can ever go back to 
 him. He tells me first of a meeting of his Session, where the 
 elders told him they wished to have me summoned before them, 
 and of another visit from Mr. Dean, of whom I spoke to you, 
 insisting that John had been faithless in his duty to his church 
 and me. 'I could only listen,' he writes, ' in assenting anguish, 
 when he charged me with having been careless of your spiritual 
 life ; and when he said that the sin of your unbelief had crept 
 from soul to soul, like an insidious and fatal disease unseen by 
 the eyes of the church, until spiritual death, striking first one and 
 then another roused us to our danger. How can I write that 
 word ' us,' as though I arrayed myself with them against you, 
 dearest! Yet it is not you, but this fatal unbelief They 
 charged me, these elders, whose place it is to guard the spiritual 
 life of the church, with having preached peace to them, when 
 there was no peace, and leaving unspoken the words of warning
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. an 
 
 that eternal death awaits unrepented sin. They told me Davis 
 had died in his sin, not having had the fear of hell before his eyes 
 to convert his soul. And, Helen, I know it is all true ! When 
 they insisted that you, like any other member of the church, 
 should be brought before the Session, that they might reason with 
 you, and by the blessing of God convert your soul to a saving 
 knowledge of the truth, or at least bind you to silence for the 
 sake of others, I would not listen. Here I felt my right was 
 greater than theirs, for you are like my own soul. I told them I 
 would not permit it ; I knew it would but drive you further from 
 grace. I cannot think I sinned in this, though I apparently 
 neglected a means of salvation from you ; but I could not subject 
 you to that I could not put your soul into their hands. I 
 distrust myself (I have need, having loved earthly happiness more 
 than your immortal peace, and called it wisdom), yet I think I ant 
 right in this. God grant that the means of grace which I choose 
 instead, which will crucify my own heart, may, by His blessing, 
 save your soul. And I have faith to believe it will. The promises 
 
 of Gor! fail not. 
 
 
 
 ' ' Oh, Helen, if I loved you less ! Sometimes, in these two 
 weeks, while this purpose has been growiug up in my mind, I 
 have shrunk back, and cried that I could not drink of the cup, 
 and in the depth of human weakness I have felt, if I loved her 
 less, I could not do what I have to do, and so the pain would be 
 spared. But love is too mighty for me. I shall save you ! When 
 I think of the months since we were married, and which I have 
 kept unruffled by a single entreaty that you would turn from 
 darkness into light, my eyes are blasted by the sight of my own 
 sin : despair and death lay hold upon me. But He has had 
 mercy upon me. He has shown me one way in which you shall 
 be saved, and by His strength I am not disobedient to the 
 heavenly vision. Reason and argument have shown you the 
 light. Joy and peace have not led you to it. There is one path, 
 beloved, which I have faith to believe will not fail. It is sorrow. 
 Sorrow can bring the truth home to you as no other thing will. 
 The restless pressure of grief will force you to seek for light. It 
 will admit of no evasion ; it will receive no subtilty ; it will bring 
 you face to face with the eternal verities ; it will save your soul. 
 And what sorrow, Helen, can come to you such as making me 
 suffer ? And is there a pang which can tear my soul in this world 
 like absence from my beloved ! I trample my own happiness 
 under my feet. Too long I have been weajc, too, long I have loved 
 you with but half my nature ; now I am strong. Therefore I say, 
 before God, for your soul's sake, you shall not see my face until 
 you have found the truth. This pain, which will be to me but the 
 just punishment for my sin, will be to you like sornt sharp and 
 bitter medicine which shall heal you of what would otherwi
 
 2i2 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 bring eternal death. Even as I write I am filled with strength from 
 God to save you. For God has shown me the way. And it shall 
 be soon I know it shall be soon. The Lord's hand is not short- 
 ened that it cannot save. He has revealed to me the one last way 
 of showing you the truth, and He will lighten your eyes. Yet, 
 oh, my love, my wife, help me to be strong for you my Helen, 
 
 help me in these days or weeks of waiting. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 ' ' There is one mercy vouchsafed to me who am all unworthy ol 
 the least favour : it is the knowledge of your understanding it all 
 the bitter distress, the absolute conviction, and the necessity 
 which follows it. You see what the temptation was to fly with 
 you to some spot where your unbelief could not injure anyone, 
 and there work and pray for your salvation ; leaving these souls, 
 which my neglect of you and so of them, has allowed to drift into 
 sin. You will understand that, believing (oh, knowing, Helen, 
 knowing) that salvation depends upon a right conception of truth, 
 I have no choice but to force you by any means to save your soul. 
 This knowledge makes me strong. So I am set, with strength 
 which you yourself gave me, to inflict this suffering upon you. 
 Take this absence and use its bitterness to sting you to search 
 for truth. Take its anguish to God. Pray for light, pray for the 
 Spirit of God. And when light comes oh, love, the thought of 
 that joy seems too great to bear except before the throne of God ! 
 I shall not write again ; you will meet this grief in the solitude of 
 your own soul, where even I dare not come to break the silence 
 which may be the voice of God. Write me any questionings, that 
 I may help those faint stirrings of the Holy Spirit, but unless 
 questionings come I shall be silent.' 
 
 Helen had not read all of this aloud, and there was yet more, 
 on which she looked a moment before she folded the letter. The 
 closing words were full of human tenderness too divine and holy 
 for any heart but her own ; a faint smile crept about her lips for a 
 moment, as she leaned out of her distress to rest upon her 
 husband's love, and then she woke again to the present. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV11. 
 
 BUT the rector was not softened by John's letter; there was a 
 curl of contempt upon his lip which coloured his words, though 
 with Helen's ouiet eyes upon him he forced himself to speak 
 calmly. 
 
 ' You see he expects you to return. This idea of yours, of 
 a separation, is nonsense. I told you so, in the first place. 
 Now the only thing to do is to go to Lockhaven, and just 
 say that your convictions are immovable (if they are, though it
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. ilj 
 
 would be wiser to make a concession, Helen), so there is no use 
 in experimenting in this absurd way. Absurd ? Why, it is it 
 
 Dr. Howe's face was crimson, and he could find no epithet 
 strong enough to use. 
 
 ' Do you suppose I have not told John that I could not change ? ' 
 Helen said sadly, ignoring the suggestion of a concession ; ' and 
 to go back, Uncle Archie you don't know John ! He thinks 1 
 will come back you are right there but only because he thinks 
 this plan of his is an inspiration from God, and will lead me to 
 believe as he wishes. It will not, and you know it. But John 
 would feel that he was doubting God to let me come, if the 
 promise were unfulfilled. So I shall never return. Oh, must we 
 discuss it? It is fixed ; it can never be changed. If only it could 
 be understood at once ! There is no hope.' 
 
 Dr. Howe rose, and walked about the room a moment, breath- 
 ing hard, and swallowing once or twice, as though to choke some 
 hot words. Then he sat down, and began to argue. 
 
 First, he tried to prove to Helen that there was a hell, but 
 unconsciously he veered to assertions that it made no difference, 
 anyhow ; that, of course, the doctrine of eternal damnation was 
 preposterous, and that she must persuade Mr. Ward to drop the 
 subject. He reasoned and threatened, then he expostulated and 
 implored, ending all with, ' You must go back, and at once.' 
 
 Helen had been silent, but when he finished she said, so 
 absently that he knew she had not been listening. ' Shall I 
 explain why I have come back, or would you prefer to do it ? ' 
 
 ' Explain ? ' cried the rector. ' What are you thinking of ? Ot 
 course not ! It is not to be known.' 
 
 ' It must be known, I think,' Helen answered calmly. ' I am 
 here, and I shall stay here, so it seems to me better to disarm 
 gossip by telling the truth at once.' 
 
 Dr. Howe sunk back in his chair, and looked at his niece io 
 speechless annoyance. 
 
 'You had better let me tell them, Uncle Archie/ she said 
 simply; 'it will be less unpleasant for you.' 
 
 Then he regained his voice : ' It is not to be told, Helen. 1 
 shall not allow it. If you have no sense, I'll take the matter 
 into my own hands. If people choose to gossip about your being 
 here a few days or a week it may take a week for this folly to 
 blow over why, they can, that's all. I will not you hear me, 
 Helen ? I will not enter into any absurd explanations.' 
 
 Helen lifted her heavy eyes, and looked at him a moment, and 
 then she said, ' Aunt Deely ? ' 
 
 Dr. Howe suffered a sudden collapse. 'Well, I ah well, 
 perhaps Adele. I suppose Adele must know it. I don't know 
 but what her common-sense may be good for you, my dear. Yes, 
 VH teU Adele.'
 
 H4 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' I should like to have Lois understand it,' Helen said. 
 
 'Well,' Dr. Howe conceded, 'yes I suppose you might 
 mention it to Lois because ' 
 
 ' I don't want her to think anything wrong of John,' Helen 
 explained. 
 
 Dr. Howe stared at her blankly, but did not burst into wrathful 
 exclamations ; he was actually exhausted in mind and body ; this 
 controversy had been too much for him. But that remark of 
 Helen's ended it. She went slowly upstairs, clinging to the 
 balustrade as though she needed some support, yet she had not 
 spoken of being tired. She passed Lois, sitting on the window- 
 heat which ran across the broad landing, but did not seem to see 
 her, and there was something in her cousin's face which kept the 
 young girl dumb. 
 
 Dr. Howe did not go to Dale House until the next day ; he 
 vaguely hoped something would turn up before his sister dis- 
 covered Helen's presence at the rectory, which would make this 
 humiliating confession unnecessary. But nothing happened 
 except the arrival of a letter from John Ward to Dr. Howe, 
 explaining his convictions, and reiterating his determination. 
 
 Helen kept to her own room that day and the next, so Gifford 
 Woodhouse, who came to the rectory, did not guess her presence, 
 since Lois had been admonished to be silent concerning it, and 
 no one else chanced to call. Of course the servants knew. 
 Dr. Howe ground his teeth as he reflected that Sally would 
 probably tattle the whole thing; the more so if she were charged 
 not to mention it. Yet he was rather relieved, when he went to 
 tell his sister, to find that she knew the main fact already. 
 
 ' Helen's back again ! ' she cried, as soon as she saw him. 
 
 He found her in the big cool dining-room, cutting out pieces 
 of paper for the tops of her pots of strawberry-jam, and fringing 
 them delicately with a little pair of shining scissors. 
 
 ' Well, Archibald,' she said, looking at him over her glasses, as 
 he sat down at the other end of the polished table, ' this is 
 pretty hot, isn't it ? I'll have Betty bring you a sangaree ; there's 
 a. fan on the window-sill, if you want it ; I never have patience to 
 use a fan. Henry's in his library. I declare, it is as cold as a 
 vault in that room ; but you had beter not go down. We Howes 
 are too rheumatic for such damp places.' 
 
 Betty brought the sangaree, and the rector diverted himself 
 while he put off the evil moment of explanation, by clinking the ice 
 against the glass. 
 
 ' Betty was down in the village last night,' Mrs. Dale was say- 
 ing, ' and she saw your Sally, and she told her Helen did not get 
 off on Monday. What in the world does that mean ? I do dislike 
 to see the child so changeable. I suppose she wants to wait and 
 go with Lois, after all ? But why didn't she make up her mind 
 before she started ? And all this talk about getting back to her
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 115 
 
 husband! Oh, these young wives they don't mind leaving 
 
 their husbands ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, she's back,' said the rector gloomily. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' Mrs. Dale asked quickly, for his tone 
 did not escape her. 
 
 Then he told her the whole story. There was a moment's 
 silence when he had finished. At last Mrs. Dale said violently, 
 ' Well ! ' and again, ' Well ! ' After that she rose, and brushing 
 the clipping of paper, from her black silk apron, she said, ' We 
 will go and talk this over in the parlor, Archibald.' 
 
 The rector followed her, miserably. Though he had a clear 
 conscience, in that he had treated the ridiculous affair with the 
 utmost severity, and had done all he could to make Helen return 
 to her husband, yet he trembled as he thought how h- sister would 
 reproach him. ('Though I can't help it!' he sa*^ to himself. 
 4 Heaven knows I used every argument short of force. I couldn't 
 compel a reluctant wife to return to an unwilling husband, 
 especially when she thinks the husband is all right.') ' You see, 
 she approves of Ward,' he groaned. 
 
 Mrs. Dale sat down, but the rector walked nervously about, 
 jingling some keys in his pocket. 
 
 ' It is very distressing,' he said. 
 
 ' Distressing ? ' cried Mrs. Dale. 4 It is worse than distressing. 
 It is disgraceful, that's what it is disgraceful ! What will De- 
 borah Woodhouse say, and the Draytons ? I tell you, Archibald, 
 it must be put a stop to, at once ! ' 
 
 ' That is very easy to say,' began Dr. Howe. 
 4 It is very easy to do, if there's 
 
 very easy to do, if there's a grain of sense in your family. 
 Just send your niece ' 
 
 4 She's your niece, too, Adele,' he interrupted. 
 
 But Mrs. Dale did not pause ' back to her husband. Yon 
 
 ought to have taken her yesterday morning. It is probably all 
 over Ashurst by this time ! ' 
 
 4 But you forget,' objected Dr. Howe, ' he won't let her come" ; 
 you can't change his views by saying Helen must go back.' 
 
 4 But what does it matter to her what his views are ? ' said Mrs. 
 Dale. 
 
 4 It matters to him what her views are,' answered Dr. Howe de- 
 spondently. Somehow, since he had begun to talk to his sister, 
 he had grown almost as hopeless as Helen. 
 
 4 Then Helen must change her views,' Mrs. Dale said promptly, 
 1 have no patience with women who set up their own Fbenezers. 
 A woman should be in subjection to her own husband, I say and 
 so does St. Paul. In my young days we were taught to love, 
 honor, and obey. Helen needs to be reminded of her duty, and 
 I'll see that she is.' 
 
 4 Well, I wish you success,' said the rector grimly. 
 
 1 Aud I'll have it ! " Mrs. Dale retorteg.
 
 ai6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' But you don't take into consideration,' Dr. Howe said, ' that 
 Helen will not say one thing when she thinks another. How can 
 you change a person's belief ! I have been all over it, Adele. It 
 is perfectly useless ! ' 
 
 The brother and sister looked at each other a moment silently ; 
 then Mrs. Dale said : 
 
 Well, if you ask my advice ' 
 
 ' I didn't ; there's no use. Helen will be her own adviser, you 
 can depend upon that. I only just wanted you to know the facts. 
 No outsider can direct the affairs of a man and woman who are 
 entirely determined.' 
 
 ' I am not an outsider,' returned Mrs. Dale, 'though you can 
 call yourself one if you choose. And I am going to give you 
 advice, and I hope you will be sensible enough to take it. You have 
 just got to go and see this Mr. Ward, and tell him he must take 
 Helen back ; tell him we cannot have such things in our family. 
 A wife separated from her husband why good gracious, just 
 think of it, Archibald ! ' 
 
 ' Do you suppose I haven't thought of it ? ' demanded the rec- 
 tor. 
 
 ' And Helen must go,' continued Mrs. Dale, ' belief or no 
 belief.' 
 
 Her brother shook his head and sighed. 
 
 ' I don't believe it will do any good for me to see him, but of 
 course I shall go to Lockhaven unless I get a favorable answer to 
 my letter. I wrote him yesterday. Do you imagine that any talk 
 of our feelings is going to move a man like Ward ? His will is like 
 iron. I saw that in his letter to Helen. 1 suppose it pains him 
 to do this. I suppose he does suffer, in a way. But if he can 
 contemplate her distress unmoved, do you think anything I can 
 urge will change him ? He'll wait for her conversion, if it takrs 
 her whole life.' 
 
 ' But Helen has been confirmed,' said Mrs. Dale, in a bewilder^! 
 way ; ' what more does he want ? ' 
 
 ' He wants her to be converted, i tell you/ cried her brother, 
 1 and he's bound to bring it about ! He uses the illustration of 
 giving medicine to a sick child to insure its recovery, no mattet 
 at what cost of pain to the child or the giver.' 
 
 ' But isn't it the same thing ? ' persisted Mrs. Dale ; 'converted- 
 confirmed ? We don't use such expressions in the Church, but it is 
 the same thing.' 
 
 "Experience a change of heart,' Ward says in his letter; 
 'be convicted of the sin of unbelief! ' ''the rector said contemp- 
 tuously, and ignoring his sister's question ; ' but conversion with 
 him merely means a belief in hell, so far as I can make out.' 
 
 ' Well, of course Helen is all wrong not to believe in hell,' said 
 Mrs. Dale promptly ; ' the Prayer-book teaches it, and she must. 
 I'll tell her so. All you have to do is to see this Mr, Ward and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 117 
 
 tell him she will ; and just explain to him that she has been con- 
 firmed we don't use the Methodistical expressions in the Church 
 Perhaps the set he belongs to does, but one always thinks of 
 them as rather belonging to the lower classes, you know. I sup- 
 pose we ought not to expect anything else from soch a person 
 who ever heard of his people ? I always said the marriage would 
 turn out badly,' she added triumphantly. ' You remember I told 
 you so ? ' 
 
 The rector sighed. After all, Mrs. Dale did not help him. It 
 was useless to try to impress her with the theological side of the 
 matter, as she only returned with fresh vigor to the charge that 
 it was a disgrace to the family. So he rose to go, saying, 4 Well, 
 I'll wait for Ward's letter, and if he persists in this insanity, I'll 
 start for Lockhaven. You might see Helen, and see what you 
 can do.' 
 
 As Mrs. Dale began in her positive way to say how he ought to 
 talk to ' this man,' Mr. Dale came in. 
 
 4 1 thought I heard your voice/ he said to his brother-in-law, 
 4 and I came up ' he looked deprecatingly at his wife ' to ask 
 you to step down and have a pipe. I want to speak to you about 
 Denner's books.' 
 
 But before Dr. Howe could answer, Mrs. Dale poured forth 
 all the troublesome and disgraceful story of the Separated husband 
 and wife.' Mr. Dale listened intently ; once he flourished his red 
 handkerchief across his eyes as he blew his nose. When he did 
 this, he scattered some loose tobacco about, and Mrs. Dale 
 stopped to reprimand him. ' I tell you/ she ended emphatically, 
 ' it is this new-fangled talk of woman's rights that has done all 
 this. What need has Helen of opinions of her own ? A woman 
 ought to be guided by her husband in everything ! ' 
 
 4 You see it is pretty bad, Henry/ said the rector. 
 
 4 It is it is/ said the older man, his mild eyes glistening ; 4 but 
 oh, Archibald, how he loves her ! ' 
 
 ' Loves her ? ' cried the other two together. 
 
 4 Yes/ continued Mr. Dale slowly; 4 one feels as if we ou^ht 
 not even to discuss it, for we are scarcely capable of understand- 
 ing it. The place whereon we stand is holy ground/ 
 
 'Henry/ said his wife, ' there's no fool like an old fool. You 
 don't know what you are talking about/ 
 
 But when Dr. Howe, softening a little since Mr. Dale did not 
 abuse John Ward, said he must tell Helen that it would please 
 her Mrs. Dale begged him to do nothing of the sort. 
 
 4 It would be just like her to consider the whole affair a unique 
 mode of expressing affection. We had better try to show her it 
 is a disgrace to the family. Love, indeed ! Well, I don't under- 
 stand love like that ! ' 
 
 4 No/ Mr. Dale responded, ' no, I suppose not. But, my dea.r, 
 don't you wish you did ? '
 
 si 8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 When Dr. Howe told Heleu of his plan of going to Lockhaven, 
 she tried to show him that it was useless ; but as she saw his 
 determination, she ceased to oppose him. She would have spared 
 John if she could (and she knew how impossible it was that the 
 rector could move her husband), yet she felt that her family had 
 a right to insist upon a personal explanation, and to make an 
 effort, however futile, to induce her husband to take her home. 
 In the meantime, they waited for an answer to the rector's letter. 
 Helen had written, but she knew no answer would come to her. 
 She understood too well that sweet and gentle nature, which 
 yielded readily in small things, and was possessed of invincible 
 determination in crises, to hope that John could change. Yet 
 she had written ; she had shared her hopelessness as well as her 
 grief with him, when she told him how impossible it was for her 
 to think as he did. She showed how fast and far she had drifted 
 into darkness and unbelief since she had left him, yet she held 
 out no hope that a return to him could throw any light into those 
 eternal shadows. ' I understand it all,' she had written, stopping 
 to comfort him even while she told him how futile was his pain 
 and hers, ' and, oh, how you must suffer, my darling ! but it 
 cannot be helped unless you free yourself from your convictions. 
 Perhaps that will come some time ; until then, you can only be 
 true to yourself. But I understand it all I know.' 
 
 Those days of waiting were hard to bear. The distance be- 
 tween her uncle and herself had suddenly widened ; and she 
 could not see that beneath his irritation there was really a very 
 genuine sympathy. 
 
 She had vaguely hoped that Lois would comfort her, for one 
 turns instinctively in grief to the nearest loving thing, and she 
 knew her cousin loved her. Yet Lois had not been able to under- 
 stand, and Helen would hear no words of sympathy which were 
 not so much for John as for herself. 
 
 It was not until Thursday that she had told Lois why she had 
 come back. They were in their pleasant sitting-room, Lois 
 walking restlessly about, with such puzzled expectation on her 
 face that its white sadness was almost banished. Helen sat with 
 her hands clasped loosely in her lap, and leaning her head against 
 the window. Below, there was the bloom and glory of the gar- 
 den, butterflies darted through the sunshine, and the air was. full 
 of the honeyed hum of the bees. But the silence of the room 
 seemed only a breathless anxiety, which forbade rest of mind or 
 body ; and so Helen roused herself and tried to tell her cousin 
 what it all meant; but even as she talked she felt Lois' un- 
 spoken condemnation of her husband, and her voice hardened, 
 and she continued with such apparent indifference Lois was 
 entirely deceived. ' So you see,' she ended, ' I cannot go back 
 to Lockhaven.' 
 
 walking back and forth, as impatiently as heather might
 
 JOHN WARfc, PfcEACHEfc. ?^ 
 
 have been, listened, her eyes first filling with tears, and then 
 flashing angrily. She threw herself on her knees beside Helen, 
 as she finished, and put her arms about her cousin's waist, kissing 
 her listless hands in a passion of sympathy. ' Oh, my dear ! ' she 
 cried, her cheeks wet with tears, ' how dreadful how horrible ! 
 Oh, Helen darling, my poor darling ! ' 
 
 Lois did not stop to consider the theological side of the matter, 
 which was a relief to Helen. She tried to quiet the young girl's 
 distress, holding her bright head against her breast, and soothing 
 her with gentle words. 
 
 ' If I were you,' Lois said at last, 'I would go back to I> r k- 
 haven ; I would go, if it had to be in disguise ! ' 
 
 ' Not if you loved John,' Helen answered. 
 
 ' How can you bear it ? ' Lois whispered, looking up into the 
 calm face with a sort of awe which checked her tears. ' It is so 
 cruel, Helen, you cannot forgive him.' 
 
 'There is nothing to forgive; I hoped you would undet stand 
 that, Lois. John cannot do anything else, don't you see ? 
 Why, I would not love him as I do, if, having such convic- 
 tions, he was not true to them. He must be true before any- 
 thing else.' 
 
 Lois was sitting on the floor in front of her, clasping her knees 
 with her arms, and rocking to and fro. 'Well,' she cried hotly, 
 ' I don't understand anything about his convictions, but I tell you 
 what it is, Helen, I do understand how hard it is for you ! And I 
 can never forgive him if you can. It is all very well to think 
 about truth, but it seems to me he ought to think about you.' 
 
 ' But don't you see,' Helen explained, still vaguely hoping that 
 Lois would understand, ' he thinks only of me ? Why, Lois, it is 
 all for me ! ' 
 
 Lois' face was flushed with excitement. ' I don't care ? ' she 
 rried ; ' it is cruel cruel cruel ! ' 
 
 Helen looked at her steadily a moment, and then she said 
 patiently, 'The motive is what makes cruelty, Lois. And can't 
 you see that it is only because of his love that he does this ? If 
 he loved me less he could not do it.' 
 
 ' Heavens ! ' Lois exclaimed, springing to her feet, ' I wish he 
 loved you less, then ! No, there is no use saying things like 
 that, Helen; he is narrow and bigoted. He is a cruel fanatic.' 
 She did not see that Helen had half risen from her chair, and 
 was watching her with gleaming eyes. ' He actually prides 
 himself on being able to make you suffer you read me that your- 
 self out of his letter. He's a bad man, and I'm glad you've done 
 with him ' 
 
 She would have said more, but Helen had followed her swiftly 
 across the room, and grasping her arm till the girl cried out 
 with pain, she put her hand over those relentless young lips. 
 ' Hush ! ' she cried, in a terrible voice ; ' do not dare to speak so
 
 i*> JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 to me ! If I hear such words again I shall leave this house. You 
 may not be able to see my husband's nobleness, but at least you 
 can be silent.' 
 
 Lois pushed her hand away, and stared at her in amazement, 
 ' I didn't mean to offend you,' she stammered. ' I only meant 
 that he ' 
 
 ' Do not speak of him ! ' Helen said passionately, her breath 
 still quick, and her face white to the lips. ' I do not wish to hear 
 what you meant ! Oh, Lois, Lois, I thought that you' she turned 
 away and pressed her hands hard on her eyes a moment ; then she 
 said, ' I understand I know your affection for me prompted it 
 but I cannot listen, Lois, if you have such feelings about him. 
 I will take your sympathy for groated after this, I do not want 
 to talk about it again.' 
 
 Lois went silently out of the room, her heart oversowing with 
 love for her cousin, and added rage at the man who had come 
 between them. She found Gifford walking about in the hall down- 
 stairs, and, forgetful of her father's injunction, she went quickly 
 up to him, trembling with excitement, and half sobbing. 
 
 ' Giff oh, Giff that man, that John Ward, has sent Helen 
 back ! She's here she can't go home ! ' 
 
 Gifford was too astounded to speak. 
 
 ' Yes,' Lois cried, clinging to his arm, her eyes over flowing, 
 ' he is a wicked man he is cruel and she thinks I am, Giff, just 
 because I said he was.' 
 
 Lois' agitation drove him into his most deliberate speech. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? I do not understand.' 
 
 ' Of course not ! Nobody could think of anything so awful. 
 Come into the library, and I'll tell you. Father does not want it 
 spoken of, Gifford ; but since you know she's here, I might as well 
 explain.' 
 
 The room was deserted, except for Max, who was stretched on 
 the cool hearthstones; it was full of dusky shadows lurking in 
 the wainscoted corners ; the outside shutters were bowed, and 
 only two thin streaks of sunshine travelled in from the warm sweet 
 garden outside. Some roses in a bowl on the table filled the air 
 with fragrance. 
 
 Lois hurried nervously through the story, breaking into angry 
 grief that John Ward should have made Helen angry at her. 
 For she had told Gifford how she had tried to console her 
 cousin. 
 
 'It makes me hate John Ward more than ever!' she said, 
 striking her hands passionately together. ' Oh, Giff, isn't it 
 awful ? ' 
 
 ' Poov fellow ! ' said the young man, deeply moved ; - poof 
 Ward ! It is worse for him than it is for Helen,' 
 
 ' Oh, how can you say so ? ' she cried ; ' but I'm sure I hope 
 ' '
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. Ill 
 
 ' He won't weaken,' Gifford went on slowly. ' He will stand 
 like a rock for what he believes is right, and he will be more apt 
 to believe it is right if it nearly kills him.' 
 
 ' I wish it would ! And Helen, poor darling ! thinks he loves 
 her. What sort of love does he call this ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, it is love,' Gifford answered ; ' and I tell you, Lois, it is a 
 height of love that is ideal it is the measure of Ward's soul.' 
 They were both so much in earnest, there was not the slightest 
 self-consciousness in this talk of love, even though Gifford added, 
 ' I never knew a man capable of such devotion, and there are few 
 women like Helen who could inspire it.' 
 
 ' But, Giff,' Lois said, not caring to discuss John Ward's 
 character, ' did you suppose anybody could be so narrow ? 
 Think how bigoted he is ! And nobody believes ia hell now as 
 he does.' 
 
 ' I don't know about that, Lois,* Gifford responded slowly. 
 ' Lots of people do, only they don't live up to their belief. If the 
 people who say they believe in hell were in dead earnest, the 
 world would have been converted long ago.' 
 
 ' He is a wicked man ! ' Lois cried inconsequently. 
 
 But Gifford shook his head. ' No, he is not. And more than 
 that, Lois, you ought to consider that this belief of Ward's, if it 
 is crude, is the husk which has kept safe the germ of truth the 
 consequences of sin are eternal. There is no escape from char- 
 acter/ 
 
 ' Oh yes,' she answered ; ' but that is not theology, you know : 
 we don't put God into that.' 
 
 ' Heaven help us if we do not ! ' the young man said reverently. 
 ' Tt is all God, Lois ; perhaps not God as John Ward thinks of 
 Him, a sort of magnified man, for whom he has to arrange a 
 scheme of salvation, a kind of an apology for the Deity, but the 
 power and the desire for good in ourselves. That seems to me to 
 be God. Sometimes I feel as though all our lives were a thought 
 of the Eternal, which would have as clear an expression as we 
 would let it.' 
 
 Lois had not followed his words, and said impatiently as he 
 finished, ' Well, anyhow, he is cruel, and Helen should not have 
 felt as she did when I said so.' 
 
 Gifford hesitated. ' She could not help it. How could she let 
 you say it ? ' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried Lois ; ' you think he's not cruel ? ' 
 
 ' His will is not cruel,' Gifford answered ; ' but I meant I 
 meant she couldn't let you speak as you did of John Ward to 
 his wife." 
 
 Lois flung her head back. - You think I said too much ? ' sha 
 asked. ' You don't half sympathize with her, Gifford, I didn't 
 think you could be so hard/ 
 
 ' I mean it was not quite kiod in you,' he said slowly.
 
 tsi JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' I suppose you think it wasn't right ? ' 
 
 ' No, Lois ; it was not right/ he answered with a troubled 
 face. 
 
 'Well, Gifford,' she said, her voice trembling. a little, 'I'm 
 sorry. But it seems I never do do anything right. You you see 
 nothing but faults. Oh, they're there ! ' she cried desperately. 
 ' Nobody knows that better than I do : but I never thought any- 
 one would say that I did not love Helen ' 
 
 'I didn't say so, Lois,' the young man interrupted eagerly; 
 ' only I felt as though it wasn't fair for me to think you did not do 
 just right, and not tell you so." 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' Lois said lightly, ' but I don't think we are so 
 very friendly that I can claim such consideration. You are always 
 -finding fault and and about Helen you misunderstand ; we can 
 pay anything to each other. I am afraid I exaggerated her annoy- 
 ance. She knew what I meant she said she did ; she she agreed 
 with me, I've not a doubt I ' 
 
 'I always seem to blunder,' Gifford said, his face stinging from 
 the cut about friendship. ' I never seem to know how to tell thi 
 truth without giving offence but but, Lois, you know I think 
 you are the best woman in the world.' 
 
 ' You have a pretty poor idea of women, then,' she responded, 
 a lump in her throat making her voice unsteady, ' but I'm sure 
 I don't care what you think. I have a right to say what I want 
 to Helen.' 
 
 She ran out of the room, for she would not let Gifford see her 
 cry. ' I don't care what he thinks ? ' she said, as she fled panting 
 into the attic, and bolted the door as though she feared he would 
 follow her. But then she began to remember that he had said 
 she was the best woman in the world, and to her dismay she 
 found herself smiling a little. ' What a wretch I am ! ' she said 
 sternly. ' Mr. Denner is dead, and Helen is in such distress, and 
 and Dick Forsythe may come back ! How can I be pleased at 
 anything ? * 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 OF course it was soon known that Helen Ward was at the 
 rectory, but to the Misses Woodhouse, at least, her presence was 
 not of enough importance to speculate or gossip about. Gifford 
 had merely said Helen had changed her mind about going, and 
 would be in Ashurst a few days longer, and the little ladies had 
 such an absorbing interest of their own they did not ask many 
 questions. Miss Ruth only remarked that she wondered how she 
 could be satisfied to stay away from her husband so long, and
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. MJ 
 
 Miss Deborah replied that the young did not understand serious 
 attachment. 
 
 To both sisters a vague happiness had come in these last few 
 weeks, and a certain sense of importance. Each felt it for her- 
 self, and was unable to realize it for the other, yet constantly en- 
 countered it with irritated astonishment, when the desire to confide 
 was strong. 
 
 Once Miss Ruth, fearful with the memory of that last look from 
 Mr. Denner's dying eyes, tried to approach the subject delicately, 
 but was met with such amazing certainty on the part of Miss 
 Deborah, and a covert allusion to the value of the miniature, that 
 she was silenced. And again on Dr. Howe's return from Lock- 
 haven Miss Deborah's condescension in telling Miss Ruth she 
 might accompany her to the graveyard fell somewhat flat when 
 she found that her sister had intended going, and had even picked 
 some flowers to put on Mr. Denner's grave. However, they 
 went together, a gentle seriousness on each face, and an unusual 
 silence. Their parents were buried here, so that it was not alto- 
 gether sentiment which made them sad. 
 
 A white, dusty road climbed the hill which overlooked the vil- 
 lage on the east, and on its brow, facing the sunrise, was the 
 little group of Ashurst's dead. 
 
 The blossoming grass grew long and tangled here ; the gray 
 headstones slanted a little, or had even fallen, and some of the 
 inscriptions were hidden by moss. The place was full of shadowy 
 silence, only broken ty the rustle of the leaves and small bird- 
 cries, or, from down in the valley, the faint tinkle of a cow-bell. 
 Cypresses stood dark against the sky, swaying a little in the soft 
 wind, and from the top of one of them flew suddenly a brown 
 hawk, his shadow floating from the green dusk under the trees 
 out over the sunny meadow below. 
 
 The two sisters went to the graves of their father and mother 
 first, and laid some flowers on them, and stood a moment looking 
 at them silently. Their sighs were rather a reverent recognition 
 of an old grief than real sorrow, for it was many years ago that 
 these two had been laid here ; the simple souls were too happy to 
 understand the pathos of a forgotten grief indeed, they did not 
 even know they had forgotten it. 
 
 As they turned away, Miss Ruth said in a hushed voice, ' It 
 is over by Dr. Howe's lot, sister. You can see it under that 
 larch.' So they went towards this one new grave, stepping 
 softly, and stopping by some familiar name to brush away the 
 grass that hid the inscription, or lay a blossom against the stone. 
 They spoke once or twice of those who lay there, calling them 
 by their first names, yet with that curious lowering of the voice 
 which shows with what dignity death has invested what was once 
 familiar. 
 
 They were silent as they laid their flowers on the fresh earth 
 
 O
 
 ^24 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 of Mr. Denner's grave, over which the kindly grass had not yet 
 thrown its veil ; and Miss Deborah stopped to put a single rose 
 upon the sunken, mossy spot where, forty years before, the 
 little sister had been laid to rest. Both the little ladies frankly 
 wiped their eyes, though with no thought except for the old 
 friendship which had ended here. They would have turned 
 to go then, but Miss Deborah laid her hand on Miss Ruth's 
 arm. 'Why, sister,' she said, 'who is that by Mary Jeffrey's 
 grave ? ' 
 
 Someone was lying upon the grass, her cheek resting against 
 the small marble cross at the head of the grave, and one arm 
 thrown around it. 
 
 ' It must be Helen ! ' answered Miss Ruth anxiously. ' Ho* 
 imprudent ! ' 
 
 They went towards the prostrate figure there were no divisions 
 in the Ashurst burying-ground and Miss Deborah stooped and 
 touched her on the shoulder, saying in a shocked voice, for Helen 
 was shaken with sobs, ' Why, my dear child, what is the 
 matter ? ' 
 
 Helen started violently, and then sat up, brushing the tears 
 away, and struggled to speak calmly. ' I I did not know any- 
 one was here.' 
 
 ' We were just going,' Miss Ruth replied in her kind little voice, 
 ' but we were grieved to see you troubled, my dear ? ' 
 
 Miss Ruth could not help saying it in a questioning way, for, 
 in spite of Ashurst traditions of parental love, it could hardly 
 be imagined that Helen was crying for a mother she had never 
 known. 
 
 ' You are very kind,' Helen said, the tears still trembling in her 
 eyes. ' Something did trouble me and and I came here.' 
 
 The sisters spoke some gentle words of this young mother, dead 
 now for more than twenty years, and then went softly away, full 
 of sympathy, yet fearing to intrude, though wondering in their 
 kind hearts what could be the matter. But their curiosity faded 
 Mr. Denner's grave was a much more important thing than 
 Helen's unknown grief. 
 
 ' I dare say she misses her husband ? ' Miss Ruth suggested. 
 
 But Miss Deborah thought that quite improbable. ' For she 
 could go home, you know, if that was the case.' 
 
 And here the sisters dropped the subject. 
 
 As for Helen, she still lingered in the silent graveyard. She 
 felt, with the unreasoning passion of youth, that the dead gave 
 her more comfort than the living. Lois had scarcely dared to 
 speak to her since their talk in the sitting-room, and Dr. Howe's 
 silence was like a pall over the whole house. So she had come 
 here to be alone, and try to fancy what her husband and her 
 uncle had said to each other, for Dr. Howe had refused to enter 
 ; oto the details of his visit.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 225 
 
 His interview with her husband had only resulted in a greater 
 bitterness on the part of the rector. He had waited for John 
 Ward's answer to his letter, and its clear statement of the 
 preacher's position, and its assertion that his convictions were 
 unchangeable, gave him no hope that anything could be accom- 
 plished without a personal interview. Discussion with a man 
 who actually believed that this cruel and outrageous plan of his 
 was appointed by God as a means to save his wife's soul was 
 absurd and undignified, but it had to be. The rector sighed 
 impatiently as he handed her husband's letter to Helen. 
 
 ' He is lost to all sense of propriety ; apparently he has no 
 thought of what he owes you. Well, I shall go to Lockhaven to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' It is all for me ! ' Helen said. ' Oh, Uncle Archie, if you would 
 just understand that ! ' 
 
 Dr. Howe gave an explosive groan, but he only said, ' Tell 
 Lois to pack my bag. I'll take the early train. Oh, Helen, why 
 can't you be like other women ? Why do you have to think 
 about beliefs ? Your mother never doubted things ; why do you ? 
 Isn't it enough that older and wiser people than you do not ques- 
 tion the faith ? ' 
 
 At the last moment he begged her to accompany him. 
 'Together we can bring the man to his senses,' he pleaded, and 
 he secretly thought that not even the hardness and heartlessness 
 of John Ward could withstand the sorrow in her face. But she 
 refused to consider it. 
 
 ' Have you no message for him ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' No,' she answered. 
 
 ' Shan't I tell him how you miss him, Helen ? ' 
 
 A light flashed across her face, but she said simply, 'John 
 knows,' and her uncle had to be content with that. 
 
 Dr. Howe grew more intolerant with each mile of his journey. 
 Every incident touched him with a personal annoyance at the 
 man he was going to see. The rattling, dingy cars on the branch 
 railroad afflicted him with an irritated sense of being modern ; 
 the activity about the central station jarred upon his remembrance 
 of Ashurst's mellow quiet ; the faces of the men in the lumber- 
 yards, full of aggressive good nature, offended his ideas of dignity 
 and reserve. A year ago, Dr. Howe would have thought all this 
 very entertaining, and simple, and natural. Now, that a man 
 who lived in such a place, among such people, should have it in 
 his power to place the Howes in a conspicuous and painful posi- 
 tion was unbearable ! 
 
 By the time he reached the parsonage, to which an officious 
 young person of whom he had inquired his way conducted him, 
 he had attained a pitch of angry excitement which drove all theo- 
 logical arguments out of his mind Alfaretta greeted him with
 
 ja6 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 a blank stare, and then a sudden brightening- of her face as he 
 gave his name. 
 
 ' You're her uncle ! ' she cried. ' How is she ? and when is sh 
 comin' back ? She ain't sick ! ' this with quick alarm, for Dr. 
 Howe had not answered her questions. 
 
 ' No, no, my good woman,' he said impatiently, ' certainly not 
 Where is your master ? ' 
 
 'The preacher's not home,' the girl answered coldly. She wai 
 not used to be called ' my good woman,' if she did live out.' 
 ' You can wait, if you want to ; ' but there, her anxiety getting th( 
 better of her resentment, she added, ' Is she comin' back soon ? ' 
 
 ' I'll wait,' said Dr. Howe briefly, walking past her into John 
 Ward's study. 
 
 ' Insufferable people ! ' he muttered. He looked about him as 
 he entered the room, and the poverty of the bookshelves did not 
 escape his keen eyes, nor the open volume of Jonathan Edwards 
 on the writing-table. There was a vase beside it, which held one 
 dried and withered rose ; but it was doubtful if the pathos of the 
 flower which was to await Helen's return would have softened 
 him, even if he could have known it. He stopped and glanced 
 at the book, and then began to read it, holding it close to his 
 eyes, while, with his other hand behind him, he grasped his hat 
 and stick. 
 
 He read the frequently quoted passages from Edwards, that God 
 holds man over hell as a man might hold a spider or some loath- 
 some insect over the fire, with the satisfaction one feels in detect- 
 ing a proof of the vicious nature of an enemy. ' Ward is naturally 
 cruel,' he said to himself. ' I've always thought so. That speech 
 of his about slavery showed it.' 
 
 He put down the book with an emphasis which argued ill for 
 his opinion of a man who could study such words, and began to 
 pace up and down the room like some caged animal, glancing once 
 with a smothered exclamation at the old leather-covered volume, 
 which had fallen upon the floor ; he even gave it a furtive kick, as 
 he passed. 
 
 He was so occupied with his own thoughts, he did not see John 
 Ward come up the garden path and enter the parsonage, and 
 when, a moment afterwards, the preacher came into the room, Dr. 
 Howe started at the change in him. These weeks of spiritual con- 
 flict had left their mark upon him. His eyes had a strained look 
 which was almost terror, and his firm, gentle lips were set in a 
 line of silent and patient pain. Yet a certain brightness rested 
 upon his face, which for a moment hid its pallor. 
 
 Through fear, and darkness, and grief, through an extraor- 
 dinary misconception and strange blindness of the soul, John Ward 
 had come, in his complete abnegation of himself, close to God. 
 Since that June night, when he met the temptation which love for 
 his wife held out to him, he had clung with all the passion of his
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. nj 
 
 life to his love for God. The whole night, upon his knees, he be- 
 sought God's mercy for Helen, and fought the wild desire of flight, 
 the longing to take her and go away, where her unbelief could not 
 injure anyone else, and devote his life to leading her to light ; go 
 away from his people, whom God had committed to him, and whom 
 he had betrayed, leave them, stained with the sin he had permitted 
 to grow unchecked among them, and give his very soul to Helen, 
 to save her. But the temptation was conquered. When the faint, 
 crystal brightness of the dawn looked into his study, it saw him 
 still kneeling, his face hidden in his arms, but silent and at peace. 
 God had granted his prayer, he said to himself. He had shown 
 him the way to save Helen. At first he had shrunk from it, 
 appalled, crying out, ' This is death ! I cannot, I cannot ! ' But 
 when, a little later, he went out into the growing glory of the day, 
 and, standing bareheaded, lifted his face to heaven, he said, ' I 
 love her enough, thank God thank God ! ' A holy and awful joy 
 shone in his eyes. ' God will do it,' he said, with simple convic- 
 tion. ' He will save her, and my love shall be the humble instru- 
 ment.' 
 
 After that had come the days when John had written those im- 
 ploring letters to his wife, the last of which she had answered 
 with such entire decision, saying that there was no possible hope 
 that she should ever believe in what she called a ' monstrous doc- 
 trine,' and adding sorrowfully that it was hard even to believe in 
 God a personal God, and she could be content to let doctrines 
 go, if only that light upon the darkness of the world could be left 
 her. 
 
 Then he had sent his last letter. He had written it upon 
 his knees, his eyes stung with terrible tears ; but his hand did 
 not falter ; the letter was sent. Then he waited for the mani- 
 festation of God in Helen's soul : he distrusted himself and his 
 own strength, but he never doubted God ; he never questioned 
 that this plan for converting his wife was a direct answer to his 
 prayers. 
 
 Now, when he saw Dr. Howe, he had a moment of breath- 
 less hope that her uncle had come to tell him that Helen had 
 found the truth. But almost before the unreasonableness of his 
 idea struck him, he knew from Dr. Howe's face that the time was 
 not yet. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you,' he said, a little hurriedly ; the thin hand 
 he extended was not quite steady. 
 
 The rector's forehead was gathered into a heavy frown. ' See 
 here,' he answered, planting his feet wide apart, and still holding 
 his hat and stick behind him, ' I cannot give you my hand while 
 you are ignorant of the spirit in which I come.' 
 
 4 You come for Helen's sake,' John replied. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I do come for Helen's sake,' returned Dr. Howe, 
 but it is because of your conduct, because of the heartless way
 
 2i* JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 in which you have treated my niece. You cannot expeat me to 
 have a friendly feeling for the man who is cruel to her.' For the 
 moment he forgot that this was to be a theological dispute. 
 ' Now, sir, what explanation have you to give of this outrageous 
 affair ? ' 
 
 ' HelenVs soul shall be saved,' John said, his voice growing 
 firmer, but losing none of its gentleness. 
 
 Dr. Howe made an impatient gesture. ' Helen's soul ! ' he 
 cried. ' Is it possible that a sane man can seriously excuse his 
 conduct on such a ground ? Why, it is incredible ! How do you 
 suppose the world will regard your action ? ' 
 
 ' What have you or I to do with the world ? ' the other an- 
 swered. 
 
 'We live in it,' said Dr. Howe, 'and if we are wise men we 
 will not, for a mad whim, violate its standards of propriety. 
 When a man turns his wife out of his house, he must consider 
 what meaning is attached to such an action by the world. You 
 blast Helen's life, sir, and het family is necessarily involved in 
 the same disgrace.' 
 
 John looked at him with clear, direct eyes. ' I save Helen's 
 soul, and her family will rejoice with me when that day comes.' 
 
 ' Her family,' the other replied contemptuously, ' are not trou- 
 bled about Helen's soul ; they are quite satisfied with her spiritual 
 condition.' 
 
 ' Do they know what it is ? ' John asked. 
 
 ' Certainly,' answered the rector, ' of course. But it isn't of the 
 slightest consequence, anyhow. The main thing is to cover up 
 this unfortunate affair at once. If Helen comes back right away, 
 I think no one need know what has happened.' 
 
 ' But there is nothing to cover up,' John said simply; ' there ir 
 no shame that Helen should accept God's way of leading her to 
 Himself.' 
 
 ' Lord ! ' exclaimed Dr. Howe, and then stopped. This would 
 never do ; if Ward became angry, he would only grow more 
 obstinate. 
 
 ' If you are so troubled about her unbelief,' the rector said, 
 feeling that he was very wily, ' I should think you would see 
 the need of daily influence. You could accomplish more if she 
 were with you. The constant guidance of a clergyman would be 
 of the utmost value. I suppose you think she is with me, but I 
 doubt ' his lip curled a little ' if I can give her quite the in- 
 struction you desire.' 
 
 ' Oh, I had not hoped for that,' John answered. ' But her sur- 
 roundings will not influence Helen now. Impelled by my grief, 
 she must search for truth.' 
 
 Dr. Howe was too much excited to notice the reproof in John's 
 words. ' Well, it will teach her to think ; it will push her into 
 positive unbelief. Agnosticism ! that's what this 'search for
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 12$ 
 
 truth' ends in now-a-days ! Come, now, be reasonable, Ward ; 
 for Heaven's sake, don't be a a don't be so unwise. I advise 
 this really in your own interests. Why, my dear fellow, you'll 
 convert her in half the time if she is with you. What ? And 
 don't you see that your present attitude will only drive her further 
 away ? You are really going against your own interests.' 
 
 ' Do not play the part of the Tempter,' John said gently ; 'it 
 ill becomes Christ's minister to do that. Would you have me 
 pray for guidance, and then refuse to follow when it comes ? God 
 will give me the strength and courage to make her suffer that she 
 may be saved.' 
 
 Dr. Howe stared at him for a moment. Then he said, ' I I do 
 not need you to teach me my duty as Christ's minister, sir ; it 
 would be more fitting that you should concern yourself with your 
 duty as a husband.' The vein in his forehead was swollen with 
 wrath. ' The way in which you pride yourself upon devising the 
 most exquisite pain for your wife is inhuman it is devilish ! And 
 you drag her family into the scandal of it, too.' 
 
 John was silent. 
 
 Again Dr. Howe realized that he must control himself ; if he 
 got into a passion, there would be an end of bringing about a 
 reconciliation. 
 
 ' You made me forget myself,' he said. ' I didn't mean to speak 
 of my own feelings. It is Helen I want to talk about.' Perhaps 
 some flash of memory brought her face before his eyes. ' Sit down,' 
 he added brusquely 'you look tired ; ' and indeed the pallor of 
 John's face was deadly. 
 
 The rector, in his impatience, sat on the edge of his chair, one 
 plump fist resting on the table, and the other hand clenched on 
 the head of his cane. His arguments and entreaties were equally 
 divided, but he resolutely checked the denunciations which trem- 
 bled upon his lips. John answered him almost tenderly ; his 
 own grief was not so absorbing that he could be indifferent to the 
 danger of a man who set the opinion of the world before the so- 
 lemn obligations of his profession. Carefully, and fully, and 
 very quietly, he explained his position in regard to his parish ; 
 but when Dr. Howe urged that Helen might observe all proper 
 forms, and yet keep silence on what was, after all, a most imma- 
 terial difference, John roused to sudden passion. Here was an 
 old temptation. 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' he said. 'Observe forms, and let her. hope of 
 spiritual life die ? No, no not that. Form without soul is dead. 
 You 'must have seen that too often.' 
 
 ' Well, I'll tell you what to do,' said the rector, in his eagerness 
 pulling his chair closer to John's, and resting his hand almost 
 confidentially upon his knee : ' if you fear her influence in your 
 parish and of course I understand that why, give her a letter to 
 another church.'
 
 2 3 o JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 John half smiled, but did not answer. The room had grown 
 dark as they talked, and now Alfaretta brought a lamp, looking 
 curiously at the rector, as she passed him. ' Supper's ready, Mr. 
 Ward,' she said. 
 
 'Yes,' John said. 'Dr. Howe, I hope.' 
 
 But the rector plunged again into argument. Once ke stopped, 
 and said, ' So, surely, she can return ? ' 
 
 'It is impossible,' John answered quietly. 
 
 And again, ' You will not send her back ? ' 
 
 And he said, ' No.' 
 
 At last, wearied and baffled, Dr. Howe rose. He leaned heavily 
 forward on the table, his open palm resting on the volume of 
 sermons, which Alfaretta had lifted from the floor, and he looked 
 steadily at John. 'Then, sir,' he said slowly, 'I am to under- 
 stand, for my niece, that this monstrous decision of yours is fixed 
 and unchangeable ? We cannot hope that her love, or her youth, 
 or your duty, or the miserable scandal of the affair, will ever move 
 your cruel determination ? ' 
 
 John rose, too. The interview had been a terrible strain. 
 His courage was unshaken, but his strength was leaving him ; 
 a pathetic desire for sympathy and. understanding seized him. 
 'I love her too much to change. Don't you understand? 
 But I cling to more than human strength, when I say I will not 
 change.' 
 
 'Then, by Heaven,' cried the rector, ' neither shall she! with 
 my consent she shall never return to a man who reads such books 
 as those,' and he pointed to the row of Edwards 'a man who 
 denies good in anything outside his own miserable conception of 
 religion ; the very existence of whose faith is a denunciation and 
 execration of everyone who does not agree with him. You are 
 firm, sir ? So is she ! I bid you good-day.' 
 
 He turned to the door, breathing hard through his shut 
 teeth. John Ward followed him, and laid his hand upon his 
 arm. ' Do not go,' he said, 'there is much I would like to 
 say ; and you will spend the night here with me ? I beg that you 
 will not go.' 
 
 ' The roof which refuses to shelter my niece,' answered Dr. 
 Howe, his voice shaking with anger, 'shall not be over my 
 head! ' 
 
 ' Then,' said John slowly and gently, 'you must listen now to 
 what I have to say.' 
 
 ' Must ! ' cried the rector. 
 
 ' Yes, for it is your duty to listen, as it is mine to speak. I 
 dare not hear a servant of God set the opinion of the world above 
 a conception of duty no matter how strained and unnatural 
 the duty may appear to him and keep silence. I cannot lis- 
 ten when you urge Helen's temporal happiness, and refuse to 
 consider her eternal welfare, and not tell you you are wrong.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 331 
 
 You evade the truth ; you seek ease in Zion. I charge you by the 
 sacred name of Him whose minister you are, that you examine 
 your own soul.' 
 
 Dr. Howe looked at him, his face crimson with anger. ' Sir,' 
 he stammered, flinging the detaining hand from his arm ' sir 1 ' 
 And then, for the first time since Archibald Howe took orders, an 
 oath burst from his lips ; he struck his stick madly against the 
 table, and rushed from the room. 
 
 Alfaretta was lying in wait for him at the garden gate, a large 
 and rustic bunch of flowers in her hand, which she hoped he 
 would carry to Helen. 
 
 ' How's Mrs. Ward ? ' she said, trying to detain him. ' When 
 will she be home ? ' 
 
 ' Get out of my way, girl ! ' he cried, and, slamming the gate 
 behind him, he strode down the street. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 WHEN Dr. Howe reached his own door, Helen was waiting for 
 him. 
 
 She had been sitting on the porch alone for more than an hour. 
 She had been very quiet ; there was none of that restlessness 
 which excitement produced in her uncle or cousin ; but when she 
 saw Dr. Howe, she rose, and stood trembling at the head of the 
 steps. The rector flung himself out of the carriage almost before 
 it stopped. 
 
 ' I want to see you, Helen,' he said. ' I have something to say 
 to you. Come into the library.' 
 
 She followed him silently, and when he had closed the door he 
 turned and looked at her. ' Now, my child,' he began, 'you must 
 listen to what I have to say.' 
 
 He stood with one hand on his hip, and lifted the forefinger oi 
 the other as he spoke. ' I have seen that man. I have been 
 insulted by him. He is as firm as the devil can make him that 
 you shall not return to him. Now, I have no right to interfere 
 between husband and wife ; you are entirely free at any moment 
 to follow any course you may wish. At the same time, I must tell 
 you. that I shall respect you more if you do not return to him. 
 And I want to add one other thing : from this time, his name is 
 not to be spoken of in my presence.' 
 
 Helen's face had grown slowly whiter. ' Oh, you will not under* 
 stand ! ' she said hoarsely, but he interrupted her. 
 
 ' I am sorry for you, my darling. Oh, what a blow this would 
 have been for your mother ! Poor Mary felt any family trouble 
 so deeply. But you must be a woman ; you must bear it bravely.
 
 232 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Yes, your marriage with this fanatic was a terrible mistake, bui 
 we must bear it.' 
 
 Helen shook her head ; she could not speak. She had not 
 known that she had hoped anything from her uncle's visit, but 
 this final despair almost overpowered her. 
 
 ' He thinks you are going to change your mind in a week or 
 two,' he went on. ' I'd say he was insane if he were not so cruel ! 
 There is too much method in his madness. There ! I cannot 
 speak of it ; let us drop the subject. Your place in my heart is 
 secure ; I trust you will never leave me ; but on this one topic 
 we cannot meet.' Then, with a sudden tenderness, ' Oh, Helen, 
 how hard this is for you ! You must try to forgive him I 
 cannot.' 
 
 ' Forgive him ? ' she said, almost in a whisper, her beautiful 
 eyes dilating and her lips white. 'Oh, John, how I have wronged 
 you, if they think I have anything to forgive ! ' 
 
 Dr. Howe looked at her and seemed to swallow a sob ; then he 
 opened his arms, and drawing her head down on his shoulder, 
 ' Poor child,' he said, ' poor child ! ' 
 
 But this softening on his part met no response from Helen. 
 ' You do not understand John,' she said, ' and so so please do not 
 think about me.' 
 
 The rebuff sent the rector back to his own resentment. ' Re- 
 member, I do not wish to speak of him again, Helen. I have 
 nothing more to say.' 
 
 Nor would he say more to Lois and Mrs. Dale than that John 
 Ward was inflexible, and he wished no further discussion upon 
 the subject; he also forbade any urging that Helen should return 
 to her husband. 
 
 ' Well, but, brother, what explanation shall we give of her 
 being here ? ' asked Mrs. Dale anxiously. 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know,' he answered impatiently; 'anything 
 but the truth.' 
 
 ' Why, Archibald ! ' his sister cried in a shocked tone. 
 
 ' Oh, well, you know what I mean,' he said ; ' make some sort 
 of an excuse. Of course, don't say anything which is untrue, but 
 don't tell people our private affairs.' 
 
 ' Do you think she'll ever go back to him ?' Mrs. Dale inquired, 
 looking at him meditatively over her glasses. 
 
 ' I hope not ! ' he answered savagely. ' Now stop, Adele, stop ! 
 I will not discuss that man ! ' 
 
 ' Where did she get her obstinacy ? ' Mrs. Dale sighed. ' I sup- 
 pose it was from her father's side. And the whole affair is so 
 ill-bred ; one would know Helen was not all a Howe. I always 
 felt there was something lacking in Charles Jeffrey, though poor, 
 dear Mary was so infatuated. Yes, I remember, when that sister 
 of his came here to visit us. I did not feel sure, not at all sure, that 
 the Jeffreys were really well-born people. She used to sit up
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 233 
 
 straight and uncomfortable in a carriage. I never saw her lean 
 back, and I always said that girl's grandmother wasn't used to 
 riding in carriages ! So, you see, that's where Helen gets her 
 her bad taste.' 
 
 'Well, don't talk about it,' said Dr. Howe, walking restlessly 
 back and forth. 
 
 Mrs. Dale took off her glasses, and rubbed them on the corner 
 of her black silk apron. ' It would never have happened,' she 
 
 said positively, ' If they had had children. I declare I ' and 
 
 she stopped, as though about to suggest that Helen should adopt 
 a child at once. Mrs. Dale usually blamed John and Helen with 
 equal impartiality, but to-day the fault seemed to belong-~entirely 
 to her niece. She was very much puzzled to know how she was 
 to ' make excuses ' without telling an untruth. ' I'll just speak 
 to Giff about it,' she thought ; ' it all depends on the way 
 Deborah Woodhouse hears it, and Giff is really quite sensible, and 
 can advise me what to tell her.' 
 
 She saw him that afternoon, but, as she said afterwards in re- 
 luctant confidence to her husband, ' Giff hasn't much sense, after 
 all. He thought it was the best to tell the truth about it.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' responded Mr. Dale ' Well, I have often noticed, I 
 am only apt to admire the good sense of people who agree with 
 me. Gifford doubtless has not the advantage of feeling sure that 
 his wishes constitute the standards of right and wrong.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Mrs. Dale ; ' I'm sure I don't know what you 
 are talking about.' 
 
 ' Well, what are you going to do ? ' asked her husband. 
 
 ' Oh,' Mrs. Dale answered, ' Gifford will tell Deborah Wood- 
 house the truth (Helen wants him to), but he will do it as care- 
 fully and mildly as possible. And he will make her promise to 
 keep it to herself. But you know Deborah Woodhouse ; she 
 trickles there is no other word for it everything. She couldn't 
 keep a secret to save her life. But Helen will have it so. Oh, dear, 
 dear, dear ! Heaven save us from wilful women ! ' 
 
 Gifford broke the news to his aunts as wisely as he knew how, 
 but he did not hide the truth. It was not until the day before he 
 went back to Lockhaven that he told them ; he had put it off as 
 long as he could, hoping, as Dr. Howe had done, that John Ward 
 would see how useless it was to carry out his plan. Gifford had 
 found the sisters together. Miss Ruth was at work in her studio, 
 while Miss Deborah sat in the doorway, in the shadow of the 
 
 rape-vines, topping and tailing gooseberries into a big blue bowl, 
 he had a handful of crushed thyme in her lap, and some penny- 
 royal. 
 
 'It isn't roses,' Miss Deborah remarked, 'but it is better than 
 Ruth's turpentine. And so long as I have got to sit here (for I 
 will sit here while she's copying the miniature, it is a sacred 
 charge), the pennyroyal is stronger than the paint.'
 
 134 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Miss Ruth, her hands neatly gloved, was mixing her colours a 
 little wearily ; somehow, on her canvas, the face of the little sister 
 lost what beauty it had ever known. 
 
 ' I can't get the eyes,' Miss Ruth sighed. ' I have_a great mind 
 to help you with your preserving, sister.' 
 
 ' My dear Ruth,' said Miss Deborah, with much dignity, ' do I 
 try to do your work ? ' 
 
 ' But you know you couldn't paint, dear Deborah,' said the 
 younger sister eagerly. The round china-blue eyes of the little 
 sister stared at her ma'iciously. 
 
 ' Well,' returned Miss Deborah, running her small hand through 
 the gooseberries in the bowl, 'neither could you make gooseberry 
 jelly, or even a tart.' Then, seeing her nephew lounging down 
 the flagged path to the door of the studio, his straw hat pushed 
 back, and his hands in his pockets, she was suddenly reminded 
 of his packing. ' I hope, Giff dear,' she cried, ' you left plenty 
 of room in your trunk ? I have a number of articles. I want you to 
 take.' 
 
 ' There's lots of room, Aunt Deborah,' he answered. ' You 
 know I had to put in a bag of straw to fill up, when I came on I 
 couldn't have things rattle around.' 
 
 Miss Deborah laughed. 'You need your aunt to look after 
 you, my dear.' 
 
 ' Or a wife,' said Miss Ruth, looking up at him over her gleam- 
 ing spectacles. 
 
 ' Nonsense/ replied her sister vigorously ; ' don't put such 
 ideas into his head, if you please. I must say such jokes are not 
 in good taste, dear Ruth.' 
 
 But Miss Ruth was more anxious about her light than Gifford's 
 marriage. ' You are really so big, Giff,' she complained mildly, 
 ' you darken the whole studio, standing there in the doorway. 
 Do, pray, sit down.' 
 
 Gifford obediently took his seat upon the step, and this brought 
 his face on a level with Miss Ruth's. 
 
 'Oh, that is nice,' the little lady said, with gentle enthusiasm. 
 ' I shall have your eyes to look at. I have not been able to get 
 the little sister's eyes just to suit me.' 
 
 It made no difference to Miss Ruth that Gifford's eyes were 
 gray and full of trouble. 'Aunt Deborah,' he said abruptly, 
 ' Helen Ward is not going back to Lockhaven for the present. 
 Indeed, I do not know when she will go.' 
 
 Miss Deborah forgot her gooseberries in her surprise, ' Not 
 going back ! ' she cried ; while her sister said, ' Is Mr. Ward 
 coming here ? ' 
 
 Then Gifford told them the story as briefly as he could, inter- 
 rupted by small cries of amazement and dismay. ' Well,' ex- 
 claimed Miss Deborah, her delicate hands uplifted ' well ! I 
 never heard of such a thing ! How shocking, how ill-bred ! And
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 235 
 
 she is going to be at the rectory ? Ruth, my dear, you must 
 never go there without me, do you hear ? It is not proper. A wife 
 separated from her husband ! Dear me, dear me ? ' 
 
 ' How can she leave him ? ' gasped Miss Ruth. ' Married 
 people ought to love each other so that they could not be 
 parted.' 
 
 ' You have never been in a position to judge how they ought 
 to love each other,' said Miss Deborah sharply. ' But this is 
 what comes of youthful marriages, Gifford. A person should 
 have reached years of maturity before thinking of marriage. 
 Such things do not happen when people are reasonably 
 old ' 
 
 'But not too old, sister,' Miss Ruth interrupted, a little colour 
 creeping into her faded cheek. 
 
 Miss Deborah did not notice the amendment : she was anxious 
 to hear the practical side of the matter, and had questions to ask 
 about Helen's money, and whether Gifford supposed that the man 
 would do anything for her; but except their grave disapproval 
 that Helen should differ from her husband, nothing was said of 
 theology. As they talked, the sisters grew full of sympathy, 
 which waxed and waned as they thought of Helen's sorrow, or 
 the impropriety of her action. 
 
 ' I shall makft her some jelly directly,' said Miss Deborah, ' and 
 put in plenty of Madeira ; the poor thing needs strength.' 
 
 'This must be the reason,' Miss Ruth said she had put her 
 brushes down some time ago ' that she was in such distress that 
 day at her mother's grave. Oh, how trying this is for her! 
 Indeed, I am sure death is easier to bear, when one loves than 
 parting like this.' 
 
 ' Really, dear Ruth,' returned her sister, holding her head very 
 straight, ' you would not say that if you knew what it was to lose 
 a friend by death. At least Mr. Ward is alive, even if Helen 
 cannot see him. Ah, dear me ! Well, I wonder how Adele Dale 
 feels now ? I should be miserable if we had such a thing happen 
 in our family. A husband and wife quarrel, and separate ! 
 Shocking ! ' 
 
 'But there is" no quarrel, you know,' Gifford protested lowly, 
 and for the third or fourth time. 
 
 But Miss Deborah brushed this aside. ' They are separated ; 
 it is the same thing. In our family, an unhappy marriage was 
 never known. Even when your grandfather's sister married a 
 Bellingham and of course everybody knows the Bellingham 
 temper and they quarrelled, just three weeks to a day after the 
 wedding, and never thought of such a disgraceful thing as 
 leaving him. I have heard dear mamma say she never spoke to 
 him again, except when she had to ask for money ; that almost 
 killed her, she was so proud. But she never would have lowered
 
 236 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 herself by leaving him. Yes, this is really most improper in poor 
 dear Helen.' 
 
 Miss Deborah's feelings vibrated, even while she was making 
 the jelly, and though it was finally sent, she balanced her kind- 
 ness by saying to Mr. Dale that it did not seem just right for 
 a young thing like Lois to know of such a painful affair. It 
 gave Miss Deborah so much pleasure to say this to her old 
 enemy that she made excuses for Helen for a whole day after- 
 wards. 
 
 Late that afternoon Gifford went to say good-bye at the 
 rectory. It was a still, hazy August day, with a hint of autumn 
 in the air, sometimes a yellowing leaf floated slowly down, or one 
 would notice that the square tower of St. Michael's could be 
 seen, and that the ivy which covered its south side was beginning 
 to redden. 
 
 Miss Helen was not at home, Jean said. She thought she'd 
 gone up to the graveyard she most always went there. 
 
 So Gifford started in search of her. ' She ought not to be 
 alone so much,' he thought, and he wondered, with a man's dull- 
 ness in such matters, why, if she and Lois had made up after that 
 one quarrel, they were not the same tender friends. He met Lois 
 at the rectory gate. She was coming from the village, and there 
 was a look in her face which gave him a sudden jealous pain. 
 She held a letter in her hand, and her eyes were running over 
 with happiness ; her lips smiled so that they almost broke into 
 laughter as she spoke. 
 
 ' Something seems to make you very happy, Lois ? ' he 
 said. 
 
 ' It does,' she cried ' very, very ! ' 
 
 ' I am glad,' he said, wishing she could find it in her heart to 
 tell him of her joy. 
 
 'Forsythe has come to his senses,' he thought. ' I suppose he 
 has been unusually loving, confound him ! ' 
 
 The two young people parted, each a little graver than when 
 they met. ' How he does like to be with Helen ! ' Lois thought, 
 as she went on, and Gifford sighed impatiently as he wished 
 Forsythe were more worthy of her. 
 
 He found Helen walking wearily home alone. ' I wanted to 
 say good-bye,' he said, taking her hand in his big warm grasp, 
 ' and just tell you that I'll look after him, you know, in any way 
 I can. I'll see him every day, Helen.' She looked at him grate- 
 fully, but did not speak. ' I wish,' Gifford continued, hesitating, 
 you would not take such long walks by yourself. Why don't 
 you let Lois come with you ? ' 
 
 ' She would not care to,' she answered briefly. 
 
 ' Oh, I think you are wrong there,' he remonstrated. ' She is 
 lonely, too.' Helen seemed to consider. ' You know it hap been
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER 137 
 
 an unhappy summer for Lois, and if you shut her out of your 
 sorrow ' 
 
 ' I did not mean to be selfish,' she replied, not seeing how much 
 Gifford spoke for her own sake, ' and I do not shut her out ; but 
 so long as she only sympathizes with me, and not with John too, 
 I cannot let her talk to me about it.' 
 
 ' That is not quite just Helen,' he said; and afterwards Helen 
 acknowledged this. 
 
 She put her hands into his, when he turned to go home, and 
 searched his face with sad eager eyes. ' You are going to see 
 him oh, Giff, you'll see John ! ' she said. 
 
 Lois saw them talking, as they came to the rectory door, with 
 a dull feeling of envy. Gifford never seemed to care to talk 
 much to her. What was that Miss Deborah had said of his once 
 caring for Helen ? She had the good sense to be ashamed of 
 herself for remembering it, but a thought which comes even into 
 an unwilling mind cannot be driven away without leaving its 
 impress ; the point of view is subtilely and unconsciously changed. 
 She was not altogether cordial to Gifford, when he said good-bye 
 to her, which he was quick to feel. 'He thinks only of Helen,' 
 she said to herself. ' I suppose he has forgotten anything he 
 ever said to me, and my promise, too. I'm ready enough with 
 promises,' she thought, with a bitter little smile. But even this 
 memory could not keep that happiness which Gifford had seen 
 from shining in her eyes ; and when she went upstairs, Helen 
 noticed it. 
 
 Perhaps because of Gifford' s gentle reproof, she roused herself 
 to say, as he had done, ' You are very happy, Lois ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I am, I am ! ' she cried impulsively. ' Oh, Helen, I have 
 something to tell you.' A very little sympathy in her cousin's 
 voice brought her eager confidence to her lips. 'Oh, Helen, a 
 letter has come ! ' 
 
 ' John ! ' she hardly breathed. For one exquisite moment, 
 which had yet its background that he had not been strong, Helen 
 misunderstood her. 
 
 ' No, it's only something about me,' Lois answered humbly. 
 
 ' Tell me,' Helen said gently. ' If anything makes you happy, 
 you know I'll be glad.' 
 
 Lois twisted her fingers together, with a nervous sort of joy. 
 'I've just heard,' she said; 'Mrs. Forsythe has just written to 
 me.' 
 
 ' And she is very well ? ' Helen asked. She had almost forgot- 
 ten her cousin's grief and anxiety about Mrs. Forsythe. It all 
 seemed so long ago and so unimportant. 
 
 ' No, no,' Lois said, ' she says she's very sick; but oh, Helen, 
 Dick Forsythe is engaged to be married 1 ' 
 
 Helen looked puzzled. ' I don't understand.' 
 
 ' Never mind/ Lois cried joyously, ' he is, and I am o happy ! '
 
 a 3 8 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 WHEN the summer had faded into autumn, Ashurst had not 
 yet recovered from the social earthquake of discovering- that it 
 had the scandal of an unhappy marriage within its decorous 
 borders. There had been nothing which had so shaken the 
 foundation of things since Gertrude Drayton had run away 
 with her dancing-master, who, it was more than suspected, 
 had left a wife in France. This sensation lasted a long time, 
 for William Denner's face was a constant reminder of his 
 grief; but by-and-by it faded, and, as Gertrude never came 
 back to Ashurst, people even said very kindly things about 
 her. 
 
 But Helen Ward continued to live among them. 
 
 Indeed, the excitement was so great at first that Miss Deborah 
 did not remember for some time to write to Gifford that Dick 
 Forsythe was engaged to a New York girl. ' She really could 
 not blame him,' she had added, for he could hardly be expected 
 to keep his engagement with Lois after that disgraceful affair in 
 the family.' 
 
 Gifford read that part of the letter again, dizzy with happiness 
 and pain. ' How she must suffer ! ' he said to himself. ' The 
 cur ! Ah, she never could have married him ; she must have 
 discovered his contemptible nature.' 
 
 His first impulse was to hurry to Ashurst. ' Not for my own 
 sake,' he reasoned, ' but just to be there. I would never show that 
 I knew how he had treated her. She should not have an instant's 
 mortification in my presence. But she might just see, wfthout 
 being told, that I loved her through it all.' 
 
 He even rose and began to study a time-table ; but he frowned 
 a little and put it down, and went and looked out of the window a 
 while. ' Helen would be more unhappy if she thought I were not 
 here to look after Ward. Yes, I must wait till he gets stronger. 
 Perhaps next month ' 
 
 Then shaking himself together, with a revulsion of common 
 sense, 'As she is unhappy, she won't care whether I'm there or 
 not, or may be she'd rather I wasn't.' 
 
 Yet, though he could not easily subdue the desire to rush to 
 Ashurst, the thought that Helen's sorrow would be a little greater 
 if she could not think of him as near her husband, helped to keep 
 him at his post. 
 
 But it might have been good for Helen to have had the young 
 man's frank and healthful understanding of her position. She 
 was growing every day more Isnely and self-absorbed ; she was 
 losing her clear perceptions of the values of life ; she became 
 warped, and prejudiced, and very silent. She even fancied with 
 a morbid self-consciousness which would have been impossible
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. *39 
 
 before, that she had never possessed the love of her uncle and 
 cousin, and had always been an: alien. This subtile danger to 
 her generous nature was checked in an unexpected way. 
 
 One afternoon, late in September, she went, as usual, alone to the 
 graveyard on East Hill. The blue haze lay like a ribbon through 
 the valley and across the hills ; the air was still, and full of pun- 
 gent fragrance of burning brush, and yellow leaves rustled about 
 her feet. The fader 1 grass had been beaten down by the rain, and 
 was matted above the graves ; here and there a frosted weed 
 stood straight and thin against the low meadow among the purple 
 asters, and a single stalk of cardinal flowers flashed out beside 
 the lichen-covered wall ; but all the rest of the world was a blur 
 of yellow and gray. Helen sat down on a stone, and listened to 
 the small wood sounds around her. A beech leaf, twisted like the 
 keel of a fantastic boat, came pattering down on the dead leaves 
 a bird stirred in the pine behind her, and now and then a cricket 
 gave a muffled chirp. 
 
 It was here Mr. Dale found her, her head resting forlornly on 
 her hands ; she was absently watching a gay squirrel who had ven- 
 tured from his covert in the wall, and was looking at her with 
 curious twinkling eyes. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mr. Dale gently, ' they told me at the rectory 
 they thought you were up here, so I came to see if you would let 
 me walk home with you.' 
 
 Helen started as he spoke, and the squirrel scampered away. 
 
 ' Did you come for that ? ' she said, touched in spite of her bit- 
 ter thoughts. 
 
 Mr. Dale pushed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head, so 
 that his face seemed to have a black aureola around it. ' Yes,' he 
 replied, regarding her with anxious blue eyes ' yes. I am grieved 
 to have you so much alone ; yet I know how natural it is to desire 
 to be alone.' 
 
 Helen did not answer. 
 
 ' I hope,' he went on, hesitating, 'you will not think I intrude 
 if I say I came because I wanted to say that I have a great re- 
 spect for your husband, Helen.' 
 
 Helen turned sharply, as though she would have clasped his 
 hands, and then put her own over her face, which was quivering 
 with sudden tears. 
 
 Mr. Dale touched her shoulder gently. ' Yes, a great respect. 
 Love like his inspires reverence. It is almost divine.' 
 
 Helen's assent was inaudible. 
 
 ' Not, my dear,' the old man continued, ' that I do not regret 
 yes, with all my heart I deplore the suffering for you both, 
 by which his love is proved. Yet I recognise with awe that it 
 is love. And when one has come so near the end of life as I 
 have, it is much to have seen love. We look into the mys- 
 teries of God when we see how divine a human soul can be.
 
 24 o JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 Perhaps I have no right to speak of what is BO sacredly yours, 
 yet it is proper that you should know that the full meaning of 
 this calamity can be understood. It is not all grief, Helen, to be 
 loved as you are.' 
 
 She could not speak ; she clung to him in a passion of tears, and 
 the love and warmth she had thought she could never feel again 
 began to stir about her heart. 
 
 ' So you will be strong for him,' Mr. Dale said gently, his wrin- 
 kled hand stroked her soft hair. ' Be patient, because we have 
 perhaps loved you too much to be just to him ; yet your peace 
 would teach us justice. Be happier, my dear, that we may under- 
 stand him. You see what I mean ? ' 
 
 Helen did see ; courage began to creep back, and her reserve 
 melted and broke down with a storm of tears, too long unshed. ' I 
 will try,' she said brokenly ' oh, I will try ! ' She did not say 
 what she would try to dp, but to struggle for John's sake gave her 
 strength and purpose for all of life. She would live so that no one 
 could misunderstand him. 
 
 Mr. Dale walked home with her, but he did not speak to her 
 again of her sorrow. The impulse had been given, and her con- 
 science aroused ; the harder struggle of coming back to the daily 
 life of others she must meet alone. And she met it bravely. Lit- 
 tle by little she tried to see the interests and small concerns of 
 people about her, and very gradually the heavy atmosphere of 
 the rectory began to lighten. Dr. Howe scarcely knew how it 
 was that there was a whist party in his library one Friday even- 
 ing ; rather a silent one, with a few sighs from the Misses Wood- 
 house and a suspicious dimness in Mr. Dale's eyes. The rector 
 somehow slipped into the vacant chair ; he said he thought he was 
 so old whist would not hurt him, if they were willing to teach 
 him. But as he swept the board at the first deal, and criticised 
 his partner's lead at the second, instruction was deemed super- 
 fluous. 
 
 By degrees, Lois and Helen came nearer together. There was 
 no explanation : the differences had been too subtile for words, at 
 least on Lois' side, and to have attempted it would have made a 
 vague impression harden into permanence. 
 
 No one recognised an effort on Helen's part, and she only knew 
 it herself when she realized that it was a relief to be with Mr. 
 Dale. He understood ; she could be silent with him. So she came 
 very often to his little basement office, and spent long mornings 
 with him, helping him label some books, or copying notes which 
 he had intended ' getting into shape ' these twenty years. She 
 liked the stillness and dimnass of the small room, with its smell 
 of leather-covered volumes, or whiff of wood smoke from the 
 fireplace. 
 
 Mrs. Dale rarely disturbed them. ' If Helen finds any pleasure 
 'in that musty old room.' she said, one cold January morning, ' I'm
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 241 
 
 sure I'm glad. But she would be a great deal more sensible and 
 cheerful if she'd sit up in the parlor with me, if she didn't do any- 
 thing more than play patience. But then, Helen never was like 
 other people.' 
 
 And so she left her niece and her husband, with a good-natured 
 contempt in her eyes, and went up to her own domains. Mr. 
 Dale was arranging some plants on a shelf across one of the win- 
 dows, and Helen was watching him. ' They generally die before 
 the winter is out,' he said, ' but perhaps with you to look after 
 them they'll pull through.' 
 
 He was in his flowered dressing-gown, and standing on tip-toe, 
 reaching' up for one of the mildewed flower-pots. ' These are 
 orange-plants,' he exclaimed proudly. ' I planted the seeds a 
 month ago, and see how they've grown.' He put his glasses on 
 and bent down to examine them, with an absorbed look. 
 The pot that held the six spindling shoots had streaks of white 
 mould down its sides, and the earth was black and hard with 
 the deluge of water with which Mr. Dale's anxious care usually 
 began the season. He began now to loosen it gently with his 
 penknife, saying, ' I'm sure they'll flourish if you look after 
 them.' 
 
 ' I will if I'm here, Uncle Henry,' she replied. 
 
 'Ah, my dear,' he said, looking at her sharply, 'you are not 
 thinking of that hospital plan again ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered ; ' I cannot help it. I feel as though I 
 must be of some use in the world.' She was standing in the 
 stream of wintry sunshine which flooded the narrow window, 
 and Mr. Dale saw that some white threads had begun to show 
 in the bronze-brown waves of her hair. 'Yes,' she continued, 
 'it is so hard to keep still. I must do something, and be some- 
 thing.' 
 
 Mr. Dale stopped digging in his flower-pots, and looked at 
 her without speaking for <. moment ; then he said, ' I wonder 
 if you will not be something nobler by the discipline of this quiet 
 life, Helen ? And are you not really doing something if you rouse 
 us out of our sleepy satisfaction with our own lives, and make us 
 more earnest ? I know that cannot be your object, as it would 
 defeat itself by self- consciousness, but it is true, my dear.' 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 ' You see,' he went on, in his gentle voice, ' your life cannot be 
 negative anywhere. You have taken a stand for a vital principle, 
 and it must make us better. Truth is like heat or light ; its vi- 
 brations are endless, and are endlessly felt. Thefe is something 
 very beautiful to me, Helen, speaking of truth, that you and your 
 husband, from absolutely opposite and extreme points, have yet 
 this force of truth in your souls. You have both touched the 
 principle of life he from one side, you from the other. But you 
 both feel the pulse of God in it ! '
 
 242 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 You know,' she said gratefully, 'you understand ' She 
 
 stopped abruptly, for she saw Lois coming hurriedly along the 
 road, and when she opened the gate she ran across the snowy 
 lawn to Mr. Dale's office, instead of following the path. There 
 was something in her face which made Helen's heart stand still. 
 
 She could not wait for her to reach the door, but went out bare- 
 headed to meet her. 
 
 Lois took her hands between her own, which were trembling. 
 ' Gifford has sent a despatch. I I come to bring it to you, 
 Helen.' 
 
 Her cousin put out her hand for the telegram. 
 
 ' I'm afraid John is ill,' Lois said, the quick tears springing to 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' Give it to me,' Helen said. 
 
 Reluctantly Lois gave her the despatch, but she scarcely 
 looked at it. ' Uncle Henry,' she said, for Mr Dale had followed 
 her, and stood in speechless sympathy, his white hair blowing 
 about in the keen wind, ' I will go to Mercer now. I can make 
 the train. Will you let me have your carriage ? ' 
 
 Her voice was so firm and her manner so calm Lois was 
 deceived. ' She does not understand how ill John is,' she 
 thought. 
 
 But Mr. Dale knew better. ' How love's horror of death 
 sweeps away all small things,' he said, as he sat alone in his study 
 that night ' time, hope, fear, even grief itself ! ' 
 
 His wife did not enter into such analysis ; she had been sum- 
 moned, and had seen to wraps and money and practical things, 
 and then had gone crying upstairs. ' Poor child,' she said, ' poor 
 child ! She doesn't feel it yet.' 
 
 A calamity like this Mrs. Dale could understand; she had 
 known the sorrow of death, and all the impatience which had 
 stood between Helen and herself was swept away in her pitying 
 sympathy. 
 
 As for Lois, Helen had not forbidden her, and she, too, had 
 gone to Mercer. Helen had not seemed even to notice her 
 presence in the carriage, and she dared not speak. She thought, 
 in a vague way, that she had never known her cousin before. 
 Helen, with white, immovable face, sat leaning forward, her hand 
 on the door, her tearless eyes straining into the distance, and a 
 tense breathless air of waiting about her. 
 
 ' May I go to Lockhaven with you ? ' Lois asked softly ; but 
 Helen did not answer until she had repeated the question, and 
 then she turned with a start of one suddenly wakened, and looked 
 at her. 
 
 ' Ob, you are here ? ' she said. ' You were good to come, but 
 you must not go further than Mercer.' Then she noticed that the 
 window beside Lois was open, and leaned forward to close it. 
 After that, she lapsed again into her stony silence.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 243 
 
 When they reached the station, it was she who bought the 
 ticket, and then again seemed startled to find the girl by her 
 side. 'Good-by,' she said, as Lois kissed her, but there was 
 no change in her face, either of relief or regret, when her cousin 
 left her. 
 
 How that long, slow journey passed Helen never knew. She 
 was not even conscious of its length. When Gifford met her, she 
 gave him one questioning look. 
 
 'Yes,' he said tenderly, 'you are in time. He would not let 
 me send before, Helen ; and I knew you would not come unless I 
 said, 'John sends for you.' ' 
 
 'No/ she answered. He told her, in their quick ride to the 
 parsonage, that this had been the third hemorrhage, and John 
 had not rallied ; but it was not until the night before that he 
 had known the end was inevitable and near, and had sent for his 
 wife. 
 
 Oh, the strangeness of those village streets ! Had she ever 
 been away ? These months in Ashurst were a dream ; here only 
 was reality and death. 
 
 Alfaretta could not speak as she met them at the gate, but ran 
 by Helen's side, and furtively kissed her hand. There was a 
 light burning in the study, but Helen stood at the table in the hall 
 and took off her bonnet and cloak. 
 
 ' I will go and tell him you are here/ Gifford said, trying to 
 detain her as she turned to go upstairs. 
 
 ' He knows,' she said calmly, and left Gifford and the servant 
 standing in the entry. 
 
 She did not even pause at the door ; there seemed no need to 
 gather strength for the shock of that meeting ; she was all strength 
 and love. 
 
 The room was lighted only by the fire, and the bed was in 
 shadow. 
 
 There were no words ; those empty, dying arms were stretched 
 out to her, and she gathered him close to her heart. 
 
 The house was strangely silent. Again and again Gifford crept 
 up to the door, but all was quite still ; once he heard that soft 
 sound which a mother makes when she soothes her baby on her 
 breast, and again a low murmur, which died away as though even 
 words were an intrusion. 
 
 All that long winter day, Gifford, in his intense anxiety lest 
 Helen should not come in time, and his distress for the sorrow of 
 this little household, had been calmed and comforted by John's 
 serene courage. He knew that death was near, but there was an 
 exultant look in his fading eyes, and sometimes his lips moved in 
 grateful prayer. Perhaps his physical extremity had dulled his 
 fears for his wife's salvation into a conviction that his death was 
 to be the climax of God's plans for her. He was bewildered at 
 (he temptation of greater joy at the prospect of her presence thap
 
 244 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 gratitude that God should save her soul alive. But he never for 
 one moment doubted she would come to tell him she had found 
 the light. 
 
 The night wore heavily on. Gifford stationed himself upon the 
 stairs outside the door ; the doctor came, and then went quietly 
 down to John's study, and found a book to while away the time. 
 And then they waited. 
 
 When the first faint lightening of the sky came, and the chill 
 of dawn began to creep through the silent house, Helen came out 
 of the closed room. She put her hand upon Gifford's shoulder. 
 ' Go and rest,' she said ; ' there is no need to sit here any longer. 
 John is dead.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AFTER it was all over, they begged her to go back to Ashurst. 
 
 ' You can't stay here,' Lois entreated she had come with Mr. 
 Dale as soon as the news of John Ward's death reached Ashurst 
 'you can't live among these people, Helen.' 
 
 But Helen shook her head. ' They are John's people. I can- 
 not go yet.' 
 
 Lois thought with a shiver of the exhortations of the clergymen 
 who had come to the funeral to officiate. She wondered how 
 Helen could stay where everyone had heard her sin of unbelief 
 publicly prayed for ; yet, with her cousin's brave sad eyes upon 
 her, she dared not give this as a reason why Helen should leave 
 Lockhaven. 
 
 Mr. Dale did not urge her to return; he knew her too well. 
 He only said when he went away, holding her hands in his and 
 looking at her, his gentle old face quivering with tears, ' He is 
 all yours now, my dear ; death has given you what life could 
 not. No matter where you are, nothing can change the perfect 
 possession.' 
 
 There was a swift, glad light in the eyes she lifted to his for a 
 moment, but she did not answer. 
 
 At first she had been stunned and dazed ; she had not realized 
 what her sorrow was ; an artificial courage came to her in the 
 thought that John was free, and the terrible and merciful 
 commonplace of packing and putting in order hid her from 
 herself. 
 
 She had stayed behind in the small brown parsonage, with 
 only Alfaretta for a companion, and Gifford's unspoken sympathy 
 when he came every day to see her. Once she answered it. 
 
 ' I am glad it is John instead of me/ she said, with an uplifted 
 look ; ' the pain is not his.' 
 
 ' And it is so much happier for him now/ Gifford ventured to
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 245 
 
 say ' he must see so clearly ; and the old grief is lost in joy.' 
 
 ' No," Helen answered wearily ; ' you must not say those things 
 to me. I cannot feel them. I am glad he has no pain in an 
 eternal sleep there is at least no pain. But I must just wait my 
 life out, Gifford. I cannot hope ; I dare not. I could not go on 
 living if I thought he were living somewhere and needing me. 
 No, it is ended. I have had my life.' 
 
 She listened in eager and pathetic silence to every detail ol 
 John's life since she had left him which Alfaretta or Gifford could 
 give her. A little later she asked them both to write out all 
 that they remembered of those last days. She dared not trust 
 the sacred memory only to her heart, lest the obliterating years 
 should steal it from her. And then, by-and-by, she gathered up 
 all her power of endurance, and quietly went back to Ashurst. 
 That last night in the little low-browed parsonage not even 
 Alfaretta was with her. Gifford left her on the threshold with a 
 terrible fear in his heart, and he came to the door again very early 
 in the morning ; but she met him calmly, with perfect comprehen- 
 sion of the anxiety in his face. 
 
 ' You need not be afraid of me,' she said. ' I do not dare to be 
 a coward.' 
 
 And then she walked to the station, without one look back at 
 the house where she had known her greatest joy and greatest 
 
 grief. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The summer had left spring far behind, when Gifford Wood- 
 house came to Ashurst. 
 
 He could not stay in Lockhaven ; the tragedy of John Ward had 
 thrown a shadow upon him. The people did not forget that he 
 was Mrs. Ward's friend, and they made no doubt, the bolder 
 ones said, that Lawyer Woodhouse was an infidel, too. So he 
 decided to take an office in Mercer. This would make it possible 
 for him to come back to Ashurst every Saturday, and be with his 
 aunts until Monday. 
 
 Perhaps he did not know it, but Lockhaven shadows seemed 
 deeper than they really were because Mercer was only twelve 
 miles from Lois Howe. Not that that could mean anything, 
 more than just the pleasure of seeing her sometimes. Gifford 
 told himself he had no hope. He searched her occasional letters 
 in vain for the faintest hint that she would be glad to see him. 
 ' If there were the slightest chance of it,' he said with a sigh, ' of 
 course I'd know it.. She promised. I suppose she was awfully 
 attached to that puppy.' 
 
 However, in spite of hopelessness, he went to Mercer, and soon 
 it became a matter of course that he should drop in at the rectory 
 every Sunday, spending the evening with Helen after Dr. Howe 
 and Lois had gone to church. 
 
 Helen never went, ' I cannot,' she said to Gifford once; ' the
 
 246 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 service is beautiful and stately, and full of pleasant associations, 
 but it is outside of my life. If I had ever been intensely religious, 
 it would be different, I suppose I should care for it as a sacred 
 past ; but it was never more than pleasant. What I called my 
 spiritual life had no reality to me. And now, surely, I cannot go, 
 when I have no faith at ail.' 
 
 ' I think you will go, some day, Helen,' Gifford said thought- 
 fully ; 'the pendulum has to swing very far away from the 
 extreme which you have seen before the perfect balance comes. 
 And I think you make a mistake when you say you have no 
 faith. Perhaps you have no creed, bat faith, it seems to me, 
 is not the holding of certain dogmas ; it is simply openness and 
 readiness of heart to believe any truth which God may show.' 
 
 They were sitting on the porch at the rectory ; the fragrant dusk 
 of the garden was beginning to melt into trembling light as the 
 moon rose, and the last flush of sunset faded behind the hills. 
 Helen had a soft white wrap over her black dress, but Gifford 
 had thought it was cool enough to throw a gray shawl across 
 her feet ; he himself was bareheaded, and sat on the steps, 
 clasping his knees with his hands. 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' Helen said, 'but I think I am like a person who 
 walks along in the dark, yet looks towards the east. I will not 
 comfort myself with little candles of memory or desire, and say, 
 ' This is light ! ' Perhaps light will never come to my eyes, but I 
 will wait, for I believe there is light somewhere." 
 
 It was much for Helen to say this. No one had guessed what 
 was behind her reserve on such subjects ; perhaps no one had 
 very greatly cared. 
 
 ' Gifford ! ' she said suddenly. He looked up, surprised at her 
 tone. 
 
 ' Yes, Helen ? ' 
 
 ' I wish,' she said ' I wish you were as happy as you deserve 
 to be.' 
 
 He knew what she meant, and would not repay her confidence 
 by pretending not to understand. ' Well, I'm not as happy as I 
 desire, perhaps, but no doubt I'm as happy as I deserve.' 
 
 ' No,' she answered, ' you are not. And oh, Gifford, there is 
 so much sorrow in the world, the only thing which makes life 
 possible is love, because that is the only thing which does not 
 change.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it cannot be for me,' he said, after a moment's 
 silence, ' except the joy of giving love.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asked gently. 
 
 Gifford did not speak ; he rose, and began to pace up and down 
 in front of the porch, crossing and re-crossing the square of light 
 which fell from the open hall door. ' I ought not to talk about it,' 
 he said at last. ' I've got it down at the very bottom of my life, 
 a sort of foundation-stone oo which to build noble things. Your
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 247 
 
 words made it spring up into a whole palace of beauty ; but it is 
 in the air it is in the air ! You know what I mean : it must 
 always be giving with me ; she will never care. She never could, 
 having loved once. And it is curious, Helen, but in a certain 
 paradoxical way I'm content she shouldn't. She would not be 
 the woman she is, if she could love twice. 
 
 Helen smiled in the darkness. ' Gilford' she began. 
 
 But he interrupted her, flinging his head back, in impatient 
 despair. ' No, it cannot be, or it would have been, don't you see ? 
 Don't encourage me, Helen ; the kindest thing you can do is to 
 kill any hope the instant it shows its head. There was a time, I 
 was fool enough to think it was just after the engagement was 
 broken. But I soon saw from her letters there was no chance for 
 me.' 
 
 ' But Gifford,' Helen almost forgot to protect Lois, in her 
 anxiety to help him ' you must not think that. They were never 
 engaged.' 
 
 Gilford stood still and looked at her ; than he said something in 
 a low voice, which she could not hear. 
 
 ' I must not say another word,' she said hurriedly. ' I've no 
 right even to speak as I did. But oh, Gifford, I could not see you 
 lose a chance of happiness. Life is so short, and there is so much 
 sorrow ! I even selfishly wanted the happiness of your joy for my 
 own sake.' 
 
 Still Gifford did not speak ; he turned sharply on his heel, and 
 began his restless walk. His silence was getting unbearable, 
 when he stopped, and said gently, ' I thank you, Helen. I do not 
 understand it all, but that's no matter. Only, don't you see, it 
 doesn't make any difference ? If she had been going to care, I 
 should have known it long ago.' 
 
 This was very vague to Helen ; she wondered if Lois had re- 
 fused him again. But Gifford began to talk quietly of his life in 
 Mercer, and she did not venture to say anything more. ' After 
 all, they must work out their own salvation,' she thought. ' No 
 one can help them, when they both know the facts.' 
 
 She listened a little absently to Gifford who was speaking of the 
 lack of any chance for advancement in Mercer. ' But really,' 
 he added, 'I ought not to go too far away from my aunts now ; 
 and I believe that the highest development of character can come 
 from the most commonplace necessities of life.' Helen sighed ; 
 she wondered if this commonplace of Ashurst was her necessity ? 
 For again she was searching for her place in the world the 
 place that needed her, and was to give her the happiness of use- 
 fulness ; and she had even thought vaguely that she might find 
 some work in Lockhaven, among John's people, and for them. 
 They both fell into the silence of their own thoughts, until the 
 rector and his daughter came back from church, and Gifford 
 went home.
 
 248 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 The next week was a thoughtful one with Gifford Woodhouse ; 
 Helen's words had stirred those buried hopes, and it was hard to 
 settle back into a life of renunciation. He was strangely absent- 
 minded in his office. One day Willie Denner, who had come to 
 read law, and was aspiring to be his clerk, found him staring out 
 of the window, with a new client's papers lying untouched before 
 him. After all, he thought, would it be wrong, would it trouble 
 Lois (he had said he should never trouble her), if he just told her 
 how the thought of her helped him, how she was a continual in- 
 spiration in his life ? ' If I saw it bothered her, I could stop,' he 
 argued. 
 
 And so, reasoning with himself, he rode over from Mercer late 
 that Saturday night. The little ladies were, as usual, delighted 
 to see him. These weekly visits were charming ; their nephew 
 could be admired and fussed over to their hearts' content, but 
 was off again before they had time to feel their small resources at 
 an end. The next morning he dutifully went to church with them. 
 Sunday was a proud day for the Misses Woodhouse, each took 
 an arm of the young man, whose very size- made him imposing, 
 and walked in a stately way to the door of St. Michael's. They 
 would gladly have been supported by him to their pew, but it 
 would have been, Miss Deborah said, really flaunting their 
 nephew in the faces of less fortunate families, for Ashurst could 
 not boast of another young man. 
 
 Miss Ruth wore her new bonnet that day in honor of his 
 presence. She had taken it from the bandbox and carefully 
 removed its wrapping of tissue paper, looking anxiously at the 
 clouds as she smoothed the lavender strings and pinched the 
 white asters on the side, before she decided that it was safe to 
 wear it. 
 
 Gifford looked up the rectory lane as they drew near the church, 
 and Miss Deborah noticed it. ' Giff dear,' she asked, 'did you 
 observe, last Sunday, how ill poor little Lois looked ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he said, somewhat startled. 
 
 'Ah, yes,' said Miss Ruth, nodding her head so that the white 
 asters trembled, ' she has never really gotten over V.iat disappoint- 
 ment about young Forsythe.' 
 
 ' But she was not engaged to him,' responded Gifford boldly. 
 
 ' Not engaged,' Miss Deborah admitted, ' Imt she fully expected 
 to be. He did not treat her honourably, there is no doubt of that. 
 But her affections were unalterably his.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ? ' demanded her nephew. 
 " Why, my dear child,' said Miss Ruth, ' there is no doubt of it. 
 Adele Dale told Dear Deborah the whole story. Of course she 
 had it from Lois.' 
 
 ' Not that it makes the slightest difference in my position,' 
 Gifford thought, as he sat crowding- down the pain of it, and 
 looking at Lois, sitting in the rosy light of the window of the left
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 249 
 
 transept. ' I am just where I was before, and I'll tell her, if it 
 does not seem to bother her.' 
 
 After church, there was the usual subdued gossip about the 
 door, and while Gifford waited for his aunts, who had something 
 to say to the rector, he listened to Mrs Dale, who said in her in- 
 cisive voice, ' Isn't it too bad Helen isn't here ? I should think, 
 whether she wanted to or not, she'd come for her husband's sake.' 
 Even the apology of death had not made Mrs. Dale pardon John 
 Ward. 
 
 But Mr. Dale mildly interjected : ' She would stay away for his 
 sake, if she did not really want to come.' 
 
 To which Mrs Dale responded, ' Fudge ! ' 
 
 Miss Deborah also spoke of her absence to Lois. ' Sorry dear 
 Helen is not here, but of course Gifford will see her to-night. He 
 does so enjoy his evenings with her. Well, they are both young 
 and I have my thoughts ! ' 
 
 So, with the utmost innocence, Miss Deborah had planted the 
 seeds of hopelessness and jealousy in the hearts of both these 
 young people. Gifford spent the rest of the long, still Sunday, 
 wandering restlessly through the house, and changing his mind 
 about speaking to Lois every few minutes. Lois was very distant 
 that evening at the rectory, so Gifford talked mostly to Helen. 
 There was no chance to say what he had intended, and he made 
 none. 
 
 ' Well,' he said to himself as he went home, not caring to 
 stay and talk to Helen when Lois had gone to church ' well, it 
 is all a muddle. I don't understand about there being no engage- 
 ment, but I cannot help remembering that she cared, though I 
 have no business to. And she cares yet. Oh, what a confounded 
 idiot I am ! ' 
 
 He told his aunts he was going to make an early start the next 
 morning. ' I shall be off before you are up. I guess Sarah will 
 give me something to eat. And, Aunt Deborah, I don't know 
 that I can get over next week.' 
 
 The little ladies protested, but they were secretly very proud 
 that his business should occupy him so much. 
 
 There was a silver mist across the hills, when Gifford led his 
 horse out of the barn the next morning, and the little sharp 
 paving-stones in the stable-yard, with thin lines of grass between 
 them, were shining with dew. The morning glories about the 
 kitchen porch had flung their rosy horns toward the east, as 
 though to greet the sunrise. Sarah stood under them, survey- 
 ing the young man regretfully. ' Your aunts won't half like it, 
 Mr. Gifford,' she said; 'that you wouldn't eat a proper break- 
 fast.' 
 
 But he put his foot in the stirrup, and flung himself into his 
 saddle. He was too much absorbed in his own concerns to 
 reflect that Miss Deborah would be distressed if her Scotch
 
 250 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 collops were slighted, and that was not like Gifford. However, he 
 was young and a man, so his grief did not prevent him from 
 lighting a cigarette. The reins fell on the horse's neck as he 
 climbed East Hill, and Gifford turned, with one hand on the bay's 
 broad flanks, to look down at Ashurst. The valley was still full 
 of mist, that flushed and trembled into gold before it disappeared 
 at the touch of the sun. There was a flutter of birds' wings in 
 the bushes along the road, and the light wind made the birch 
 leaves flicker and dance ; but there was hardly another sound, 
 for his horse walked deliberately in the grass beside the road, 
 until suddenly a dog barked. Gifford drew his rein sharply. 
 ' That was Max ! ' he said, and looked about for him, even rising 
 a little in his stirrups. ' How fond she is of the old fellow ! ' he 
 thought. 
 
 In another moment the dog ran across the road, his red coat 
 marked with dew ; then the bushes were pushed aside, and his 
 mistress followed him. 
 
 ' Why, Gifford ! ' she said. 
 
 ' Why, Lois ! ' he exclaimed with her, and then they looked at 
 each other. 
 
 The young man threw away his cigarette, and springing from 
 his horse, slipped the reins over his arm, and walked beside her. 
 
 ' Arf you going away ? ' Lois asked. ' But it is so early ! ' 
 
 She' had her little basket in her hand, and she was holding 
 her blue print gown up over a white petticoat, to keep it from the 
 wet grass. Her broad hat was on the back of her head, and 
 the wind had blown the curls around her face into a sunny tangle, 
 and made her cheeks as fresh as a wild-rose. 
 
 ' You are the early one, it seems to me,' he answered, smiling. 
 
 ' I've come to get mushrooms for father,' she explained. ' It 
 is best to get them early, while the dew is on them. There are a 
 good many around that little old ruin further up the road, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know,' he said. (He felt himself suddenly in a tumult 
 of uncertainty. > ' It would be no harm to just say a few words,' 
 he thought. ' Why shouldn't she know no matter if she can 
 never care herself that I care ? It would not trouble her. No, 
 I am a fool to think of it I won't,') ' But it is so early for you 
 to be out alone,' he said. ' Do you take care of her, Max ? ' 
 
 ' Max is a most constant friend,' Lois replied, 'he never leaves 
 me.' Then she blushed, lest Gifford should think that she had 
 thought he was not constant. 
 
 But Gifford's thoughts were never so complicated. With him, 
 it was either, ' She loves me,' or, ' She does not ; ' he never tor- 
 mented himself after the fashion of women, by wondering what 
 this look meant, or that inflection, and fearing that the innermost 
 recesses of his mind might be guessed from a calm and in 
 different face.
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. a$i 
 
 8 You sfee the old chimney ?' Lois said, as they drew near the 
 small ruin. ' Some mushrooms grow right in on the hearth.' 
 
 It was rather the suggestion of a ruin, for the walls were not 
 standing ; only this stone chimney with the wide, blackened fire- 
 place, and the flat door-stones before what was once the thresh- 
 hold. Grass and brambles covered the foundations : lilacs, with 
 spikes of brown dead blossoms, grew tall and thick around it, 
 and roses, gone back to wild singleness, blossomed near the steps 
 and along a path, which was only a memory, the grass had 
 tangled so above it. 
 
 Max kept his nose under Lois' hand, and the horse stumbled 
 once over a stone that had rolled from the broken foundation and 
 hidden itself beneath a dock. The mushrooms had opened their 
 little shining brown umbrellas, as Lois had said, on the very 
 hearth, and she stooped down to gather them and put them in 
 her basket of sweet grass. From the bushes at one side came 
 the sudden note of a bob-white ; Max pricked his ears. 
 
 ' Lois,' Gifford said abruptly, still telling himself that he was 
 a fool but then, it was all so commonplace, so free from senti- 
 ment, so public, with Max, and the horse, and the bob-white, it 
 
 could not trouble her just to 'Lois, I'd like I'd like to tell 
 
 you something, if you don't mind.' 
 
 ' What ? ' she said pleasantly ; her basket was full, and they 
 began to walk back to the road again. 
 
 Gifford stopped to let his horse crop the thick wet grass about 
 a fallen gate-post. He threw his arm over the bay's neck, and 
 Lois leaned her elbows on the other post, swinging her basket 
 lightly while she waited for him to speak. The mist had quite 
 gone by this time, and the sky was a fresh, clear blue. ' Well/ 
 he began, suddenly realising that this was a great deal harder 
 than he had supposed' ('She'll think I'm going to bother her 
 with a proposal/ he thought) ' well, the fact is, Lois, there's 
 something I want you to know. Perhaps it doesn't really interest 
 you, in one way ; 1 mean, it is only a a happiness of my own, 
 and it won't make any difference in our friendship, but I wanted 
 you to know it.' 
 
 In a moment Miss Deborah's suggestion was a certainty to 
 Lois. She clasped her hands tight around the handle of her grass 
 basket ; Gifford should not see them tremble. ' I'm sure I'll be 
 glad to hear anything that makes you happy.' 
 
 Her voice had a dull sound in her own ears. 
 
 ' Helen put it into my head to tell you/ Gifford went on 
 nervously. ' I hope you won't feel that I am not keeping my 
 word ' 
 
 She held her white chia a little higher. ' I don't know of any 
 ' word/ as you call it, that there is for you to keep, Gifford.' 
 
 ' Why, that I would not trouble you, you know, Lois/ he fal- 
 tered. ' Have you forgotten ? '
 
 *5* JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 ' What !' Lois exclaimed, with a start, and a thrill in her voice, 
 
 'But I am sure,' he said hurriedly, ' it won't make you un- 
 happy just to know that it is still an inspiration in my life, and 
 that it always will be, and that love, no matter if ' 
 
 ' Oh, wait a minute, Giff ! ' Lois cried, her eyes shining like 
 stars through sudden tears, and her breath quick. ' I I why, 
 don't you know, I was to don't you remember my promise ? ' 
 
 'Lois ! ' he said, almost in a whisper. He dropped the bay's 
 rein, and came and took her hand, his own trembling". 
 
 ' I know what you were going to say,' she began, her face 
 turned away so that he could only see the blush which had crept 
 
 up to her temple, ' but I -' He waited, but she did not go on. 
 
 Then he suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her without a 
 word ; and Max, and the horse, and the bob-white looked on with 
 no surprise, for after all it was only part of the morning, and the 
 sunrise, and Nature herself. 
 
 ' And to think that it is I ! ' Lois said a minute afterward. 
 
 ' Why, who else could it be ? ' cried Gifford rapturously. 
 
 But Lois shook her head; even in her joy she was ashamed of 
 herself. ' I won't even remember it,' she thought. 
 
 Of course there were many explanations. Each was astonished 
 at the other for not having understood ; but Lois' confession of 
 her promise to Mrs. Forstyhe made it all clear, though it 
 left a look that was almost stern behind the joy in Gifford' s eyes. 
 
 ' You know I couldn't help it, Giff,' she ended. 
 
 But he did not speak. 
 
 ' It wasn't wrong,' she said. ' You see how it was you don't 
 think it was wrong ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do, Lois,' he answered. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she cried ; and then, ' but you made me ! ' 
 
 ' 1 ? ' he exclaimed, bewildered. 
 
 And then she told him how his acknowledgment of her fault 
 drove her into a desire for atonement. ' You know you think I'm 
 wrong pretty often,' she added shyly, and then they mutually 
 forgave each other. ' I suppose I did find a good deal of fault,' 
 Gifford admitted humbly, ' but it was always because I loved 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Lois. 
 
 But there was so much to say they might have talked until 
 noon, except that, as they had neither of them breakfasted, and 
 happiness and morning air are the best tonics, they began to think 
 of going to the rectory. Gifford had quite forgotten the business 
 in Mercer which needed him so early. 
 
 ' Father won't have mushrooms with his steak today,' Lois 
 commented, looking ruefully at the little basket, which she still 
 held in her hand. 
 
 They stopped at the roadside, walking hand in hand like two 
 children, and looked back at the ruin. ' It was a home once/
 
 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 253 
 
 Gifford said, ' and there was love there ; and so it begins over 
 again for us love and happiness, and all of life.' 
 
 ' Oh, Giff,' the girl said softly, ' I don't deserve ' 
 
 But that, of course, he would not hear. When they came to 
 the rectory gate and never did it take so long to walk from East 
 Hill to the rectory Gifford said, ' Now let's go and tell Helen : 
 we've kept her out of our joy too long.' They met her in the 
 cool, dusky hall, and Gifford, taking her hand, said gently : ' Be 
 glad, too, Helen ! ' 
 
 Lois had put her arms about her cousin, and without further 
 
 words Helen knew. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 And so Helen Ward's duty came to her, the blessedness and 
 helpfulness of being needed ; when Lois went to her new home, 
 Helen would be necessary to her uncle, and to be necessary would 
 save her life from hardness. There need be no thought of occu- 
 pation now. When Mr. Dale heard the news, he said his con- 
 gratulations were not only for Lois and Gifford, but for Helen, 
 
 and after that for Ashurst. 
 
 ****** 
 
 A genuine Ashurst engagement was a great thing, and the 
 friends of the young people received it in their several ways. 
 Dr. Howe was surprised, but disposed to make the best of it. 
 'This is always the way,' he said, with his big, jolly laugh: 'a 
 man brings up his girls, and then, just as soon as they get old 
 enough to amount to something and be a comfort to him, some 
 other man comes along and carries them off. What ? Mind, 
 now, Gifford, don't go further away than Mercer ! ' 
 
 As for Mrs. Dale, she was delighted. ' It is what I have 
 always wanted ; it is the one thing I've tried to bring about ; 
 and if Lois will do as I tell her, and be guided by a wiser head 
 than her own, I have no doubt she will be very reasonably 
 happy.' 
 
 ' Doesn't a woman expect to be guided by her husband ? ' Mr. 
 Dale asked. 
 
 'When he has sense enough,' responded his wife signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were greatly pleased. 'Of 
 course they are very young,' said Miss Deborah; 'but I'll have 
 an eye to the housekeeping until Lois gets older. Fortunately 
 they'll be so far away from dear Adele, she cannot interfere 
 much. Even with the best intentions in the world, a girl's rela- 
 tions shouldn't meddle.' 
 
 ' They seem very much in love, sister,' said Miss Ruth thought- 
 fully. 
 
 'Well, really, dear Ruth,' replied her sister, 'you are hardly 
 capable of judging of that ; but you happen to be right; they are 
 as much attached as one can expect young people to be.'
 
 *54 JOS** WARD, PREACHER. 
 
 But Miss Ruth, as she stood that night before her cherry-wood 
 dressing-table, its brass rings glimmering in the candle-light, 
 opened Mr. Denner's daguerreotype, and, looking wistfully at 
 the youthful face behind the misty glass, said softly to hersdf : 
 'Ah, well, it's good to be young.' 
 
 THE END.
 
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