ars since the calm which I sought here has been
ruffled. I had come to believe that for me earthly troubles were no
more. But there has come into my life a new concern. I have heard so
much of thee, and before thy coming.' The recurrence of the phrase
struck him. He would have asked how such could be, but he deemed it
better to wait. She went on:

'I have been wishful to ask thy advice. But why should not I tell thee
outright that which troubles me? I am not used, at least for these many
years, to dissemble. I can but trust thee in all; and lean on thy man's
mercy to understand, and to aid me!'

'I shall do all in my power, believe me!' said Harold simply. 'Speak
freely!' She pointed out of the window, where Stephen's white horse
seemed on the mighty sweep of green sward like a little dot.

'It is of her that I would speak to thee!' Harold's heart began to beat
hard; he felt that something was coming. The Silver Lady went on:

'Why thinkest thou that she rideth at such speed? It is her habit!' He
waited. She continued:

'Doth it not seem to thee that such reckless movement is the result of
much trouble; that she seeketh forgetfulness?' He knew that she was
speaking truly; and somehow the conviction was borne upon him that she
knew his secret heart, and was appealing to it. If it was about Stephen!
If her disquiet was about her; then God bless her! He would be patient
and grateful. The Quaker's voice seemed to come through his thought, as
though she had continued speaking whilst he had paused:

'We have all our own secrets. I have had mine; and I doubt not that thou
hast had, may still have, thine own. Stephen hath hers! May I speak to
thee of her?'

'I shall be proud! Oh! madam, I thank you with all my heart for your
sweet kindness to her. I cannot say what I feel; for she has always been
very dear to me!' In the pause before she spoke again the beating of his
own heart seemed to re-echo the quick sounds of Stephen's galloping
horse. He was surprised at the method of her speech when it did come;
for she forgot her Quaker idiom, and spoke in the phrasing of her youth:

'Do you love her still?'

'With all my soul! More than ever!'

'Then, God be thanked; for it is in your power to do much good. To
rescue a poor, human, grieving soul from despair!' Her words conveyed
joy greater than she knew. Harold did not himself know why the air
seemed filled with sounds that seemed to answer e