ell me more about your
mission work."

"I don't like to speak of that," she replied. "It is too much like
boasting of what I am doing." She had no sooner said this than she
regretted it; her fierce conscience rose up and charged her with
uncandid speech. But how could she be candid?

"I don't like to think," said Millard, "that so large a part of your
life--a part that lies so near to your heart--should be shut out from
me. I can't do your kind of work. But I can admire it. Won't you tell me
about it?"

Phillida felt a keen pang. Had it been a question of her ordinary work
in the months that were past she might easily have spoken of it. But
this faith-healing would be dangerous ground with Millard. She knew in
her heart that it would be better to tell him frankly about it, and face
the result. But with him there she could not get courage to bring on an
immediate conflict between the affection that was so dear and the work
that was so sacred to her.

"Charley," she said slowly, holding on to her left hand as though for
safety, "I'm afraid I was not very--very candid in the answer I gave you
just now."

"Oh, don't say anything, or tell me anything, dear, that gives you
pain," he said with quick delicacy; "and something about this does pain
you."

Phillida spoke now in a lower tone, looking down at her hands as she
said, with evident effort: "Because you are so good, I must try to be
honest with you. There are reasons why I hesitate to tell--to tell--you
all about what I am doing. At least this evening, though I know I ought
to, and I will--I will--if you insist on it."

"No, dear; no. I will not hear it now."

"But I will tell you all some time. It's nothing _very_ bad, Charley. At
least I don't think it is."

"It couldn't be, I'm sure. Nothing bad could exist about you"; and he
took her hand in his. "Don't say any more to-night. You are nervous and
tired. But some other time, when you feel like it, speak freely. It
won't do for us not to open our hearts and lives to each other. If we
fail to live openly and truthfully, our little boat will go ashore,
Phillida dear--will be wrecked or stranded before we know it."

His voice was full of pleading. How could she refuse to tell him all?
But by all the love she felt for him, sitting there in front of her,
with his left hand on his knee, looking in her face, and speaking in
such an honest, manly way, she was restrained from exposing to him a
phase of her life that