d then went quietly down to John's
study, and found a book to while away the time. And then they waited.

When the first faint lightening of the sky came and the chill of dawn
began to creep through the silent house, Helen came out of the closed
room. She put her hand upon Gifford's shoulder. "Go and rest," she said;
"there is no need to sit here any longer. John is dead."

CHAPTER XXXI.

After it was all over, they begged her to go back to Ashurst.

"You can't stay here," Lois entreated--she had come with Mr. Dale as soon
as the news of John Ward's death reached Ashurst--"you can't live among
these people, Helen."

But Helen shook her head. "They are John's people. I cannot go yet."

Lois thought with a shiver of the exhortations of the clergymen who had
come to the funeral to officiate. She wondered how Helen could stay where
every one had heard her sin of unbelief publicly prayed for; yet, with
her cousin's brave sad eyes upon her, she dared not give this as a reason
why Helen should leave Lockhaven.

Mr. Dale did not urge her to return; he knew her too well. He only said
when he went away, holding her hands in his and looking at her, his
gentle old face quivering with tears, "He is all yours now, my dear;
death has given you what life could not. No matter where you are, nothing
can change the perfect possession."

There was a swift, glad light in the eyes she lifted to his for a moment,
but she did not answer.

At first she had been stunned and dazed; she had not realized what her
sorrow was; an artificial courage came to her in the thought that John
was free, and the terrible and merciful commonplace of packing and
putting in order, hid her from herself.

She had stayed behind in the small brown parsonage, with only Alfaretta
for a companion, and Gifford's unspoken sympathy when he came every day
to see her. Once she answered it.

"I am glad it is John instead of me," she said, with an uplifted look;
"the pain is not his."

"And it is so much happier for him now," Gifford ventured to say,--"he
must see so clearly; and the old grief is lost in joy."

"No," Helen answered wearily; "you must not say those things to me. I
cannot feel them. I am glad he has no pain,--in an eternal sleep there is
at least no pain. But I must just wait my life out, Gifford. I cannot
hope; I dare not. I could not go on living if I thought he were living
somewhere, and needing me. No, it is ended. I have had my life."