tood a moment, swaying, as it an inward
indecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap
close by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the
two in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As
the rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the
rector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your
kindness--and patience. I am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" and
her voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tell
you," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be so
good. You are here for the rector, aren't you?"

"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do
all I can for--any one."

She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want,"
she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a
chair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now
in sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress
and the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and
patter of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note of
pleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she
said.

"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man
widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after.
They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it.
Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So
when I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be
honest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. He
seemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talk
to him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--in
confidence, you know--if he really and truly thought it was wrong for a
person to kill herself. I can't see why." She glanced at the
attentive, quiet figure at the window. "Do you think so?" she asked.
He looked at her, but did not speak. She went on. "Why is it wrong?
They say God gives life and only God should take it away. Why? It's
given--we don't ask for it, and no conditions come with it. Why should
one, if it gets unendurable, keep an unasked, unwanted gift? If
somebody put a ball of bright metal into your hands and it was pretty
at first and nice to play with, and then turned red-hot, and hurt,
wouldn't it be silly to go on holding it? I