a sacred past; but it was
never more than pleasant. What I called my spiritual life had no reality
to me. And now, surely, I cannot go, when I have no faith at all."

"I think you will go, some day, Helen," Gifford said thoughtfully; "the
pendulum has to swing very far away from the extreme which you have seen
before the perfect balance comes. And I think you make a mistake when you
say you have no faith. Perhaps you have no creed, but faith, it seems to
me, is not the holding of certain dogmas; it is simply openness and
readiness of heart to believe any truth which God may show."

They were sitting on the porch at the rectory; the fragrant dusk of the
garden was beginning to melt into trembling light as the moon rose, and
the last flush of sunset faded behind the hills. Helen had a soft white
wrap over her black dress, but Gifford had thought it was cool enough to
throw a gray shawl across her feet; he himself was bareheaded, and sat on
the steps, clasping his knees with his hands.

"Perhaps so," Helen said, "but I think I am like a person who walks along
in the dark, yet looks toward the east. I will not comfort myself with
little candles of memory or desire, and say, 'This is light!' Perhaps
light will never come to my eyes, but I will wait, for I believe there is
light somewhere."

It was much for Helen to say this. No one had guessed what was behind her
reserve on such subjects; perhaps no one had very greatly cared.

"Gifford!" she said suddenly. He looked up, surprised at her tone.

"Yes, Helen?"

"I wish," she said, "I wish you were as happy as you deserve to be."

He knew what she meant, and would not repay her confidence by pretending
not to understand. "Well, I'm not as happy as I desire, perhaps, but no
doubt I'm as happy as I deserve."

"No," she answered, "you are not. And oh, Gifford, there is so much
sorrow in the world, the only thing which makes life possible is love,
because that is the only thing which does not change."

"I am afraid it can never be for me," he said, after a moment's silence,
"except the joy of giving love."

"Why?" she asked gently.

Gifford did not speak; he rose, and began to pace up and down in front of
the porch, crossing and recrossing the square of light which fell from
the open hall door. "I ought not to talk about it," he said at last.
"I've got it down at the very bottom of my life, a sort of foundation
stone on which to build noble things. Your words make it