"My work is wearisome sometimes."

"More so than it was?" she questioned anxiously. "You used not to look
so tired."

"Don't you think that a wearisome thing must grow more wearisome merely
by going on?"

"But is that all? Isn't there anything else the matter?"

"Perhaps there is," he allowed. "There are little worries of course, but
shall I tell you what is the great thing that is the matter with me?"

"If you will."

"I miss you, Judith."

The color spread over her face like a rosy dawn. Her eyes were fixed on
the pavement, and yet they looked as if they caught a glimpse of Eden.
But Percival could not see that. "You miss me?" she said.

"Yes." He had forgotten his hesitation and despair. He had outstripped
them, had left them far behind, and his words sprang to his lips with a
glad sense of victory and freedom. "Must I miss you always?" he said.
"Will you not come back to me, Judith? My work could never be wearisome
then when I should feel that I was working for you. There would be long
to wait, no doubt, and then a hard life, a poor home. What have I to
offer you? But will you come?"

She looked up at him: "Do you really want me, or is it that you are
sorry for me and want to help me? Are you sure it isn't that? We Lisles
have done you harm enough: I won't do you a worse wrong still."

"You will do me the worst wrong of all if you let such fears and fancies
stand between you and me," said Percival. "Do you not know that I love
you? You must decide as your own heart tells you. But don't doubt me."

She laid her hand lightly on his arm: "Forgive me, Percival."

And so those two passed together into the Eden which she had seen.

CHAPTER XLIX.

HOW THE SUN ROSE IN GLADNESS, AND SET IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF
DEATH.

The Wednesday which was so white a day for Judith and Percival had
dawned brightly at Fordborough. Sissy, opening her eyes on the radiant
beauty of the morning, sprang up with an exclamation of delight. The
preceding day had been gray and uncertain, but this was golden and
cloudless. A light breeze tossed the acacia-boughs and showed flashes of
blue between the quivering sprays. The dew was still hanging on the
clustered white roses which climbed to her open window, and the birds
were singing among the leaves as if they were running races in a
headlong rapture of delight. Sissy did not sing, but she said to
herself, "Oh, how glad the Latimers must be!"

She was right, for at