ith crimson scars,
Thy will be done!"--Whittier.

Heliet's penetration had not deceived her. The mean, narrow, withered
article which Vivian Barkeworth called his soul, was unable to pardon
Clarice for having shown herself morally so much his superior. That his
wife should be better than himself was in his eyes an inversion of the
proper order of things. And as of course it was impossible that he
should be to blame, why, it must be her fault Clarice found herself most
cruelly snubbed for days after her interference in behalf of her
graceless husband. Not in public; for except in the one instance of
this examination, where his sense of shame and guilt had overcome him
for a moment, Vivian's company manners were faultless, and a surface
observer would have pronounced him a model husband. Poor Clarice had
learned by experience that any restraint which Vivian put upon himself
when inwardly vexed, was sure to rebound on her devoted head in the form
of after suffering in private.

To Clarice herself the reaction came soon and severely. On the evening
before Rosie's funeral, Heliet found her seated by the little bier in
the hall, gazing dreamily on the face of her lost darling, with dry eyes
and strained expression. She sat down beside her. Clarice took no
notice. Heliet scarcely knew how to deal with her. If something could
be said which would set the tears flowing it might save her great
suffering; yet to say the wrong thing might do more harm than good. The
supper-bell rang before she had made up her mind. As they rose Clarice
slipped her hand into Heliet's arm, and, to the surprise of the latter,
thanked her.

"For what?" said Heliet.

"For the only thing any one can do for me--for feeling with me."

After supper Clarice went up to her own rooms; but Heliet returned to
the hall where Rosie lay. To her astonishment, she found a sudden and
touching change in the surroundings of the dead child. Rosie lay now
wreathed round in white rosebuds, tastefully disposed, as by a hand
which had grudged neither love nor labour.

"Who has done this?" Heliet spoke aloud in he surprise.

"I have," said a voice beside her. It was no voice which Heliet knew.
She looked up into the face of a tall man, with dark hair and beard, and
eyes which were at once sad and compassionate.

"You! Who are you?" asked Heliet in the same tone.

"You may not know my name. I am--Piers Ingham."

"Then I do know," replied Heliet,