which did not exist for
other men, and there were few Sundays when he did not spend some minutes
or some hours on the moor. There were blank days when Helen failed him
because she thought Mildred Caniper was lonely, others when she ran out
for a word and swiftly left him to the memory of her grace and her
transforming smile; yet oftenest, she was waiting for him in the little
hollow of earth, and those hours were the best he had ever known. It was
good to sit and see the sky slowly losing colour and watch the moths
flit out, and though neither he nor she was much given to speech, each
knew that the other was content.

"Helen," he said one night in late September when they were left alone,
"I want to tell you something."

She did not stir, and she answered slowly, softly, in the voice of one
who slept, "Tell it."

"It's about beauty. I'd never seen it till you showed it to me."

"Did I? When?"

"I'm not sure. That night--"

"On the moor?"

"Always on the moor! When you had the basket. It was the first time
after I came back."

"But you couldn't see me in the darkness."

"Yes, a little. You remember you told me to light the lamps. And I could
hear you--your voice running with the wind--And then each day since. I
want to thank you."

"Oh--" She made a little sound of depreciation and happiness.

"Those old Sundays--"

"Ah, yes! The shining pews and the painted stars. This is better."

"Yes, this is better. Heather instead of the sticky pews--"

"And real stars," she murmured.

"And you for priestess."

"No, I'm just a worshipper."

"But you show the way. You give light to them that sit in darkness."

"Ah, don't." There was pain in her voice. "Don't give me things. At
least, don't give me praise. I'm afraid of having things."

"But why, my dear?" The words dropped away into the gathering dusk, and
they both listened to them as they went.

"I'm afraid they will be taken away again."

"Don't have that feeling. It will be hard on those who want to give
you--much."

"I hadn't thought of that," she cried, and started up as though she were
glad to blame him. "And you never tell me anything. Why don't you? Why
don't you tell me about your work? I could have that. There would be no
harm in that."

"Harm? No. May I?"

"Why shouldn't you? They all tell me things. Don't you want somebody to
talk to?"

"I want you, if you care to hear."

"Oh, Zebedee, yes," she said, and sank into her place.

"Hel