ct to the mild,
soft heat; so he sat there long after Lois had gone wearily up-stairs to
bed, and the rectory was full of drowsy silence.

Outside, the tree which leaned toward the house bent and swayed in the
wind, and scratched against the weather boards, while the rain came in a
quick dash against the glass, and then seemed to listen for an answer,
and waver, and retreat, and go sweeping down among the bushes in the
garden.

The rector had not lighted his lamp; the faint, still light from two
candles in the row of silver candlesticks on the tall mantel was all he
wanted until he began to read. He was ready to do that later. A church
journal, with an account of a quarrel between a High-Church clergyman and
his Low-Church Bishop, was within reach of his hand, and the "Three
Guardsmen," in a ragged yellow cover, was astride his knee, but now he
was content to sit and think. He made a prosperous and comfortable
figure, reflected in the dim, dark mirror over the mantel, where the
candles shone back like stars in a pool at night. A white moth had found
its way into the house, and fluttered back and forth between the candles,
its little white ghost following it in the glass. The rector watched it
placidly. Even his thoughts were tranquil and comfortable, for he was
equally indifferent both to the bishop and his rebellious clergyman.
There was a cup of mulled wine simmering by the brass dogs, and the
fire sputtered and sung softly. Max, with his nose between his paws,
watched it with sleepy eyes. The little tinge of melancholy in Dr. Howe's
face did not interfere with a look of quiet satisfaction with life;
perhaps, indeed, it gave an added charm to his ruddy, handsome features.
At first he had been thinking of Mr. Denner; not of that distressing day
when he had told him of approaching death,--that was too painful for such
an hour, he meant to meet it later,--but of the sad vacancy the little
gentleman had left.

Perhaps the consciousness of the thought from which he was hiding turned
his mind to Helen, and here all was satisfactory. There had been no
discussion, none of the theological argument that her letters had given
him cause to dread, which had made him feel a quiver in that solid rock
of custom that a long-quieted earthquake had once shaken to its centre.
He felt in a vague way that his niece was not quite so near and familiar,
and there was a subtile reserve, which did not show itself in words or
any check in the