she might come in at any moment
smiling as she used to. If she had ever suffered or been sad in it, I
might feel as if the pain and sadness were left there; but when I open
the door it seems as if her pretty smile met me, or the sound of her
voice singing as she used to when she painted."

She rose and went to her son's side again, laying her hand on his arm
with a world of tenderness in her touch.

"Try to think of that, Lucien, dear," she said; "try to think that her
face was never any sadder or older than we see it in her pretty picture
there. She might have lived to be tired of living, and she was saved from
it."

"Try to help him," she said, turning to Baird, "perhaps you can. He has
not learned to bear it yet. They were very near to each other, and
perhaps he is too young to think of it as we do. Grief is always heavier
to young people, I think. Try to help him."

She went out of the room quietly, leaving them together.

When she was gone, John Baird found himself trying, with a helpless
feeling of desperation, to spur himself up to saying something; but
neither words nor thoughts would come. For the moment his mind seemed a
perfect blank, and the silence of the room was terrible.

It was Latimer who spoke first, stiffly, and as if with difficulty.

"I should be more resigned," he said, "I should be resigned. But it has
been a heavy blow."

Baird moistened his dry lips but found no words.

"She had a bright nature," the lagging voice went on, "a bright
nature--and gifts--which I had not. God gave me no gifts, and it is
natural to me to see that life is dark and that I can only do poorly the
work which falls to me. I was a gloomy, unhappy boy when she was born. I
had learned to know the lack in myself early, and I saw in her what I
longed for. I know the feeling is a sin against God and that His judgment
will fall upon me--but I have no power against it."

"It is a very natural feeling," said Baird, hoarsely. "We cannot resign
ourselves at once under a great sorrow."

"A just God who punishes rebellion demands it of His servants."

"Don't say that!" Baird interrupted, with a shudder; "we need a God of
Mercy, not a God who condemns."

"Need!" the dark face almost livid in its pallor, "_We_ need! It is not
He who was made for our needs, but we for His. For His servants there is
only submission to the anguish chosen for us."

"That is a harsh creed," said Baird, "and a dark one. Try a brighter one,
ma