of the winter soon to be upon us. I went
down to the old graybeard poplars and their leaves seemed to hiss
together in the moonlight instead of rustling softly as they had been
all summer. A great many of them were drifted in dry waves on the grass
and their gold was turned to silver in the moonlight. Many of the tall
shrubs were naked ghosts of their former selves and gnashed their bones
drearily. I leaned against the tallest old poplar and looked out across
the valley with a kind of stillness in my heart that seemed to be
listening and then listening.

"Oh, I'm thankful, thankful that strength has been given me to endure it
all--life," I said to myself, almost under my breath. "And no matter
what comes I can never lose it. I can go out into life now alone
and--unafraid."

"'And whither thou goest I too will go, and thy--'" came the Gregorian
chant from close beside me, and I turned to find the Harpeth Jaguar
stalking me in the night.

Then for a long time we stood and looked at each other, he tearing away
the veil from his man's heart and I laying aside that in my woman's
breast.

"Oh, I've needed you so," I finally said, with a catch in my breath as I
put my hands in his which he put palm to palm, then raised to his lips.

"You were in God's hands and I had to wait His time," he answered me.
"And I would have waited until the stars burn dim. As near as loss came
I never doubted. I had asked Him for you."

"I didn't know I was going to join your church this morning," I
faltered. "I never intended to join your church. I was going to be
either a Baptist or a Presbyterian. I was afraid to mix--my faith
with--with you."

"Hasn't it been tried sufficiently to stand any test? I think so. Ah,
dear, come to me--it's been long for me, too." His arms entreated me,
but I held myself away with my praying hands pressed to his breast.

"Are you sure that I'm not mixing you and--your faith?" I asked, looking
him honestly in the face and giving voice to the thought that Nickols
had put into my mind and which had tortured me all the weary months
past.

"Did any thought of me make you bring Martha Ensley to Nickols' death
bed and take into your heart and home what the world calls dishonor?"

"No," I answered with honesty to myself.

"Have you once since you knew--_knew_--felt that you must turn to me for
comfort and help in one of your dire hours?"

"Not once," I answered again with honesty.

"Have you not learned to t