saw clearly his way out. He trampled down the
scruples which hampered and blinded him like thorns and had their
roots in a false pride of honor, and recognized that divine call
of love to worship which simplifies all perplexities. He would
take that girl singing yonder for is wife, if she were indeed so
generous-minded after all, not now, but later, when there could be no
possibility of slight to Dorothy Fair. His honest work in the world
he would do, were it in the ploughshares or the wayside ditches, with
no striving for aggrandizement through untoward ways, and so would he
humbly attain the full dignity of his being.

When Madelon Hautville stopped singing not one in the meeting-house
had seen Burr Gordon stir, but the soul in him had surely turned and
faced about with a great rending as of swathing wills that bound it.

Parson Fair preached that morning. Great had been the speculation as
to whether he would or not. When he stood up in his pulpit and faced
the crowded pews and the steely glances of curious eyes through the
shifting flutter of fans, he was as austerely composed as ever; but a
buzzing whisper went through the audience like a veritable bee of
gossip. "He looks dreadful," they hissed in each other's ears, with
nudges and nods.

All the principal participants in the village commotion were there
except Lot Gordon and Dorothy Fair. Dorothy had not come, in spite of
her father's stern commands, and sterner they had been than any
commands of his to his beloved child before. Dorothy had cowered
before her father, in utter misery and trepidation, after the company
had left that wedding-night, but yielded she had not--only fallen ill
again of that light fever which so easily beset her under stress of
mind.

That Sunday morning, striving to rise and go to meeting as her father
said, and being in truth willing enough, since she had a terrified
longing to see Eugene Hautville in the choir and ascertain if he were
angry or glad, she fell back weak and dizzy on her pillows, and the
doctor was called. Dorothy's fever ran lightly, as all ailments of
hers, whether mental or physical, were wont to do; and yet she had a
delicacy of organization which caused her to be shaken sorely by
slight causes. A butterfly may not have the capacity for despair, but
the touch of a finger can crush it; and had it more capacity, there
would be no butterflies.

It was a full month before Dorothy was able to go out of doors,
and al