d he
were partners in an actual loss. Something had definitely gone from
each. Jenny seemed to be twice dead with the death of her mother, and
Theophil's loneliness suddenly became more absolute and cut off than
ever before.

There was now no one left who could involuntarily recall remembered
words and traits of Jenny, and who would for their own sakes want to sit
down and talk of her. All that was left that really knew Jenny was the
old house itself. That remembered and talked of her still in its dumb
way; and as he realised this, his mood once more changed. He forgot his
aspirations toward a broader world, and felt that, not only would it be
a sort of unfaithfulness to leave Zion Place, but that to do so, and to
break up this familiar harmony of home, this little cosmos of friendly
furniture in accustomed relations,--pictures hung so from time
immemorial, rooms dedicated to this use and no other,--would be to
destroy the one mirror from which could come to him still glimpses of
Jenny's living face. In just that look of the rooms was the best
portrait he possessed of Jenny.

Though he had always been fond of Mr. Moggridge, it had not before
occurred to Theophil to make of him a companion; but about this time, as
Mr. Moggridge would drop in of an evening to discuss church matters, the
young minister would be surprised to note how lonely he felt when he had
gone. Indeed Mr. Moggridge possessed that great undefinable gift of
companionability.

What is needed in a companion is not brilliance of conversation, but the
power to make you feel that you are not quite alone in the universe.
Dogs and even children possess this quality for some happily constituted
individuals, but for others it is a necessity that the companion be a
human being.

A human being, the quieter the better, if possible a rather large man,
diffusing a sense of warmth and safety, with perhaps no other gifts than
kindliness and a pipe; and sometimes you have the best of company. And
Mr. Moggridge, as we know, had brains too, and interesting instincts
for new things. But his best gift was his humanity. Thus Theophil
encouraged his evening calls and contrived to prolong them, though the
two would often sit almost silent by the hour, their pipes alone making
a sort of conversation.

Sometimes the young lions of "The Dawn" would come to supper, as in the
old days, as Theophil called a year ago; but supper was a poor thing
without Mrs. Talbot popping in a