us now the world would be all the better for them,"
he said, looking up at last. "I would give a great deal to grasp
Waring's hand again. And Meta--it was best for her to follow him."

"Yes," Elsie answered; "it was best. I am glad, and yet I often wish she
was here."

"You have loved these two without seeing them?" he said, looking at her
intently.

"It is easy," she returned, "to know men and women by the footprints
they have left and the harvest which they have sown. There are those
whom, having not seen, we love."

A shade came over his face. "If I were to die," he said suddenly, "no
one would ever love me for the sake of what I had left. As to
footprints, they would soon be effaced; and as to the harvest, nothing
would crop up but a few wild oats. It's rather a depressing thought,
isn't it?"

"Yes," she answered, looking at him in her turn. He was conscious that
her soft, dark eyes were resting on him very thoughtfully, and that they
were full of gentleness.

He had been left an orphan at nineteen, but he had never blamed any one
but himself for the fact that he had done nothing in his life, and that
he was going on doing nothing. Uncle Harry Danforth, his mother's
brother, had looked after the Rushbrook estate for years, and had spared
Arnold all possible trouble. He had given up all responsibilities, just
because he chose to give up and let himself drift. But there are moments
when a man wakes up to a sudden CONSCIOUSNESS that he has trifled with
himself and his past. Had he come here to meet the touch of the vanished
hand? There was a pause, and again the soft white wings flew past the
window. Then Elsie spoke in a very quiet voice.

"I suppose," she said, "that there are a good many miles before you yet.
You might try a new path and begin sowing afresh."

It was a simple speech, uttered in the simplest manner possible, but it
came to him like a new truth. Yet it was a very old thing that she had
said--a thing that others had spoken to him a hundred times at least,
and he had been as deaf as a stone. Most of the ideas that have really
stirred our hearts owe their power to the voice that speaks them.

"Thirty-three is rather an advanced age for a man to begin sowing," he
answered. "But I might try, if you think it worth while."

She smiled, a sweet smile that crept up from her lips into her eyes, and
lingered there.

"I think it is worth while," she said.

"Very well; I had better start at Rushbro