es in a whisper, sometimes
breaking into a sob, she told him the story of that November night. He
could hardly hear it through.

"Love, you loved me! You will marry me."

"No; I am a wicked girl--a--a--an immodest girl--"

"My beloved, you meant no wrong--" He paused, seeing that she was not
listening.

Her father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; William
King, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads,
had summoned Henry Roberts to "come along and give 'em your blessing!"

But as he reached them, standing now apart, the doctor's smile
faded--evidently something had happened. John Fenn, tense with
distress, called to him with frowning command: "Doctor! Tell her, for
heaven's sake, tell her that it was nothing--that charm! Tell her she
did no wrong."

"No one can do that," Henry Roberts said; "it was a sin."

"Now, look here--" Dr. King began.

"It was a sin to try to move by foolish arts the will of God."

Philippa turned to the young man, standing quivering beside her. "You
see?" she said.

"No! No, I don't see--or if I do, never mind."

Just for a moment her face cleared. (Yes, truly, he was not thinking of
her soul now!) But the gleam faded. "Oh, father, I am a great
sinner," she whispered.

"No, you're not!" William King said.

"Yes, my Philippa, you are," Henry Roberts agreed, solemnly.

The lover made a despairing gesture: "Doctor King! tell her 'no!' 'no!'"

"Yes," her father went on, "it was a sin. Therefore, Philippa, SIN NO
MORE. Did you pray that this young man's love might be given to you?"

Philippa said, in a whisper, "Yes."

"And it was given to you?"

"Yes."

"Philippa, was it the foolish weed that moved him to love?" She was
silent. "My child, my Philly, it was your Saviour who moved the heart
of this youth, because you asked Him. Will you do such despite to your
Lord as to reject the gift he has given in answer to your prayer?"
Philippa, with parted lips, was listening intently: "The gift He had
given!"

Dr. King dared not speak. John Fenn looked at him, and then at
Philippa, and trembled. Except for the sound of a bird stirring in its
nest overhead in the branches, a sunny stillness brooded over the
garden. Then, suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a strange
sound--a loud, cadenced chant, full of rhythmical repetitions. The
three who heard it thrilled from head to foot; Henry Roberts did not
seem to hear it: it came from his