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 that he was driving Mr. Ward from his
own fireside, and Helen that it was too late for work.

"No, you are not driving me away. My papers are up-stairs. I will see you
again," he added, turning to Gifford; and then he 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
up-stairs 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 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 fed 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 stretched straight out, and his head sunk on
his breast. But he did not look as though he were