ouch upon his arm
had conveyed the subtle magic of sympathy. Under her homely logic, the
truth had burst upon him like sunshine. In brief, he had turned from
his own shadow and was in the light. He remembered how in his deep
feeling he had bowed his head on her shoulder and murmured, "Oh,
Bessie, Heaven bless you! I see it all."

He no longer went to the anxious seat. With this young girl, and many
others, he was taken into the church on probation. Thereafter, his
fancy never wandered again, and there was no other girl in Oakville for
him but Bessie. In due time, he had gone with her to yonder meeting
house to be married. It had all seemed to come about as a matter of
course. He scarcely knew when he became formally engaged. They "kept
company" together steadfastly for a suitable period, and that seemed to
settle it in their own and everybody else's mind.

There had been no change in Bessie's quiet, constant soul. After her
words under the shadow of the pine tree she seemed to find it difficult
to speak of religious subjects, even to her husband; but her simple
faith had been unwavering, and she had entered into rest without fear
or misgiving.

Not so her husband. He had his spiritual ups and downs, but, like
herself, was reticent. While she lived, only a heavy storm kept them
from "going to meeting," but with Holcroft worship was often little
more than a form, his mind being on the farm and its interests.
Parents and relatives had died, and the habit of seclusion from
neighborhood and church life had grown upon them gradually and almost
unconsciously.

For a long time after his wife's death Holcroft had felt that he did
not wish to see anyone who would make references to his loss.

He shrank from formal condolences as he would from the touch of a
diseased nerve. When the minister called, he listened politely but
silently to a general exhortation; then muttered, when left alone,
"It's all as he says, I suppose; but somehow his words are like the
medicines Bessie took--they don't do any good."

He kept up the form of his faith and a certain vague hope until the
night on which he drove forth the Irish revelers from his home. In
remembrance of his rage and profanity on that occasion, he silently and
in dreary misgiving concluded that he should not, even to himself, keep
up the pretense of religion any longer. "I've fallen from grace--that
is, if I ever had any"--was a thought which did much to rob him