s to his eyes. He was only obeying the universal law of nature--the
law which prompts the pallid spindling sprout of the potato in the
cellar to strive feebly toward the light.

From where he stood in the darkness he stretched out his hands in the
direction of that open window. The gesture was his confession to the
overhanging boughs, to the soft night-breeze, to the stars above--and
it bore back to him something of the confessional's vague and wistful
solace. He seemed already to have drawn down into his soul a taste
of the refreshment it craved. He sighed deeply, and the hot moisture
smarted again upon his eyelids, but this time not all in grief. With
his tender compassion for himself there mingled now a flutter of buoyant
prescience, of exquisite expectancy.

Fate walked abroad this summer night. The street door of the pastorate
opened, and in the flood of illumination which spread suddenly forth
over the steps and sidewalk, Theron saw again the tall form, with the
indefinitely light-hued flowing garments and the wide straw hat. He
heard a tuneful woman's voice call out "Good-night, Maggie," and caught
no response save the abrupt closing of the door, which turned everything
black again with a bang. He listened acutely for another instant, and
then with long, noiseless strides made his way down his deserted side of
the street. He moderated his pace as he turned to cross the road at the
corner, and then, still masked by the trees, halted altogether, in a
momentary tumult of apprehension. No--yes--it was all right. The girl
sauntered out from the total darkness into the dim starlight of the open
corner.

"Why, bless me, is that you, Miss Madden?"

Celia seemed to discern readily enough, through the accents of surprise,
the identity of the tall, slim man who addressed her from the shadows.

"Good-evening, Mr. Ware," she said, with prompt affability. "I'm so glad
to find you out again. We heard you were ill."

"I have been very ill," responded Theron, as they shook hands and walked
on together. He added, with a quaver in his voice, "I am still far
from strong. I really ought not to be out at all. But--but the longing
for--for--well, I COULDN'T stay in any longer. Even if it kills me, I
shall be glad I came out tonight."

"Oh, we won't talk of killing," said Celia. "I don't believe in
illnesses myself."

"But you believe in collapses of the nerves," put in Theron, with gentle
sadness, "in moral and spiritual and m