volving
years bring nothing more. She heard outside a long-drawn breath,
apparently just under the door. She opened it, and found Alice, her
retriever. Alice came in, sat down by the chair, and put her head on her
mistress's lap, looking up to her with large, brown, affectionate eyes
which spoke almost. There is something very touching in the love of a
dog. It is independent of all our misfortunes, mistakes, and sins. It
may not be of much account, but it is constant, and it is a love for
_me_, and does not desert me for anything accidental, not even if I am a
criminal. That is because a dog is a dog, it may be said; if it had a
proper sense of sin it would instantly leave the house. Perhaps so,
perhaps not: it may be that with a proper sense of sin it would still
continue to love me. Anyhow, it loves me now, and I take its fidelity to
be significant of something beyond sin. Alice had a way of putting her
feet on her mistress's lap, as if she asked to be noticed. When no
notice was taken she generally advanced her nose to Catharine's face--a
very disagreeable habit, Mrs. Furze thought, but Catharine never would
check it. The poor beast was more than usually affectionate to-day, and
just turned Catharine's gloom into tears. She was disturbed by a note
from Dr. Turnbull. He thought that what she needed was rest, and she was
to go to bed and take his medicine. This she did, and she fell into a
deep slumber from which she did not wake till morning.

Mr. Cardew, when Catharine left him, walked homewards, but he went a long
distance out of his way, much musing. As he went along something came to
him--the same Something which had so often restrained Catharine. It
smote him as the light from heaven smote Saul of Tarsus journeying to
Damascus. His eyes were opened; he crept into an outhouse in the fields,
and there alone in an agony he prayed. It was almost dark when he
reached his own gate, and he went up to his wife's bedroom, where she lay
ill. He sat down by the bed: some of her flowers were on a little table
at her side.

"I am so ignorant of flowers, Doss (the name he called her before they
were married); you really _must_ teach me."

"You know enough about them."

He took her hand in his, put his head on the pillow's beside her, and she
heard a gasp which sounded a little hysterical.

"What is the matter, my dear? You are tired. You have walked a long
way."

She turned round, and then without