and low these last words were--given up from the very innermost,
and spoken with bowed head and streaming eyes.

Paul Rushleigh took her hand. A manly reverence in him recognized the
pure courage that unveiled her woman's heart, and showed him all.

"Faith!" he said, "you have never deceived me. You are always noble.
Forgive me that I have made you struggle to love me!"

With these words, he went.

Faith flung herself upon the sofa, and hid her face in its cushion,
hearing, through her sobs, the tread of his horse as he passed down the
road.

This chapter of her life story was closed.

CHAPTER XXXI.

NURSE SAMPSON'S WAY OF LOOKING AT IT.

"I can believe, it shall you grieve,
And somewhat you distrain;
But afterward, your paines hard,
Within a day or twain,
Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you again."
OLD ENGLISH BALLAD.

Glory looked in, once, at the southeast room, and saw Faith lying, still
with hidden face; and went away softly, shutting the door behind her as
she went.

When Mr. Armstrong and Miss Sampson came, she met them at the front
entrance, and led the nurse directly to her mistress, as she had been
told.

Mr. Armstrong betook himself to his own room. Perhaps the hollow Paul
Rushleigh's horse had pawed at the gatepost, and the closed door of the
keeping room, revealed something to his discernment that kept him from
seeking Faith just then.

There was a half hour of quiet in the old house. A quiet that ever
brooded very much.

Then Nurse Sampson came out, with a look on her face that made Faith
gaze upon her with an awed feeling of expectation. She feared, suddenly,
to ask a question.

It was not a long-drawn look of sympathy. It was not surprised, nor
shocked, nor excited. It was a look of business. As if she knew of work
before her to do. As if Nurse Sampson were in her own proper element,
once more.

Faith knew that something--she could not guess what--something terrible,
she feared--had happened, or was going to happen, to her aunt.

It was in the softening twilight that Miss Henderson sent for her to
come in.

Aunt Faith leaned against her pillows, looking bright and comfortable,
even cheerful; but there was a strange gentleness in look and word and
touch, as she greeted the young girl who came to her bedside with a face
that wore at once its own subduedness of fresh-past grief, and a
wondering, loving apprehension of something to be