better, and he begged she
would not allow herself the slightest discomfort; it was really of no
consequence,--no consequence 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," she said.

"Hasn't the rector gotten 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. "It would be a
relief to have him reproach me."

"I hope there will be no need of reproaches. I do hope 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 responsibility 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. "