nough to please
even you!"

"I'm glad of it, for I didn't suppose she had spunk enough to resent
anything. I shall be sorry to-morrow, 's likely as not, for freeing my
mind as much as I have, but my temper's up and I'm going to be the
humble instrument of Providence and try to turn you from the error of
your ways. You've defaced and degraded the temple the Lord built for
you, and if He should come this minute and try to turn out the crowd of
evil-doers you've kept in it, I doubt if He could!"

"I hope He'll approve of the way you've used your 'temple,'" said John,
with stinging emphasis. "I shouldn't want to live in such a noisy one
myself; I'd rather be a bat in a belfry. Good-by; I've had a pleasant
call, as usual, and you've been a real sister to me in my trouble. You
shall have the twenty dollars a month. Jack's clothes are in that
valise, and there'll be a trunk to-morrow. Susanna said she'd write and
let you know her whereabouts."

So saying, John Hathaway strode down the path, closed the gate behind
him, and walked rapidly along the road that led to the station. It was a
quiet road and he met few persons. He had neither dressed nor shaved
since the day before; his face was haggard, his heart was like a lump of
lead in his breast. Of what use to go to the empty house in Farnham when
he could stifle his misery by a night with his friends?

No, he could not do that, either! The very thought of them brought a
sense of satiety and disgust; the craving for what they would give him
would come again in time, no doubt, but for the moment he was sick to
the very soul of all they stood for. The feeling of complete
helplessness, of desertion, of being alone in mid-ocean without a sail
or a star in sight, mounted and swept over him. Susanna had been his
sail, his star, although he had never fully realized it, and he had cut
himself adrift from her pure, steadfast love, blinding himself with
cheap and vulgar charms.

The next train to Farnham was not due for an hour. His steps faltered;
he turned into a clump of trees by the wayside and flung himself on the
ground to cry like a child, he who had not shed a tear since he was a
boy of ten.

If Susanna could have seen that often longed-for burst of despair and
remorse, that sudden recognition of his sins against himself and her,
that gush of penitent tears, her heart might have softened once again; a
flicker of flame might have lighted the ashes of her dying love; she
mig