. When Gifford met her, she gave him one
questioning look.

"Yes," he said tenderly, "you are in time. He would not let me send
before, Helen; and I knew you would not come unless I said, 'John sends
for you.'"

"No," she answered. He told her, in their quick ride to the parsonage,
that this had been the third hemorrhage, and John had not rallied; but it
was not until the night before that he had known the end was inevitable
and near, and had sent for his wife.

Oh, the strangeness of those village streets! Had she ever been away?
These months in Ashurst were a dream; here only was reality and death.

Alfaretta could not speak as she met them at the gate, but ran by Helen's
side, and furtively kissed her hand. There was a light burning in the
study, but Helen stood at the table in the hall and took off her bonnet
and cloak.

"I will go and tell him you are here," Gifford said, trying to detain her
as she turned to go up-stairs.

"He knows," she said calmly, and left Gifford and the servant standing in
the entry.

She did not even pause at the door; there seemed no need to gather
strength for the shock of that meeting; she was all strength and love.

The room was lighted only by the fire, and the bed was in shadow.

There were no words; those empty, dying arms were stretched out to her,
and she gathered him close to her heart.

The house was strangely silent. Again and again Gifford crept up to the
door, but all was quite still; once he heard that soft sound which a
mother makes when she soothes her baby on her breast, and again a low
murmur, which died away as though even words were an intrusion.

All that long winter day, Gifford, in his intense anxiety lest Helen
should not come in time, and his distress for the sorrow of this little
household, had been calmed and comforted by John's serene courage. He
knew that death was near, but there was an exultant look in his fading
eyes, and sometimes his lips moved in grateful prayer. Perhaps his
physical extremity had dulled his fears for his wife's salvation into a
conviction that his death was to be the climax of God's plans for her. He
was bewildered at the temptation of greater joy at the prospect of her
presence than gratitude that God should save her soul alive. But he never
for one moment doubted she would come to tell him she had found the
light.

The night wore heavily on. Gifford stationed himself upon the stairs,
outside the door; the doctor came, an