e 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 shaded 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 out 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 her. She shook the door slightly, and then listened. "John,
John!" she called again, and as she heard a long 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."

"You are 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."

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 at the sweet
spring day; she could not read while this anxiety filled her mind, and
her hands were