urse, in a way that any one could have regarded as silly, but in a
natural, happy, simple way.

How easy, how very easy, it is to keep this kind of
friendship--friendship between a man and a woman--within bounds! And how
terribly sad it was to think that Teresa Maldo had not known how to do
that easy thing! But then, Teresa's lover had been a married man
separated from his wife, and that doubtless made all the difference.
Agnes Barlow could assure herself in all sincerity that, had Mr. Ferrier
been the husband of another woman, she would never have allowed him to
become her friend to the extent that he was now.

Mr. Ferrier--Agnes never allowed herself to think of him as Gerald
(although he had once asked her to call him by his Christian name)--held
an evening paper in his hand.

"I was really on my way to The Haven," he observed, "for there are a few
verses of mine in this paper which I am anxious you should read. Shall
I go on and leave it at your house, or will you take it now? And then,
if I may, I will call for it some time to-morrow. Should I be likely to
find you in about four o'clock?"

"Yes, I'll be in about four, and I think I'll take the paper now."

And then--for she was walking very slowly, and Ferrier, with his hands
behind his back, kept pace with her--Agnes could not resist the pleasure
of looking down at the open sheet, for the newspaper was so turned about
that she could see the little set of verses quite plainly.

The poem was called "My Lady of the Snow," and it told in very pretty,
complicated language of a beautiful, pure woman whom the writer loved in
a desperate but quite respectful way.

She grew rather red. "I must hurry on, for I am going to church," she
said a little stiffly. "Good evening, Mr. Ferrier. Yes, I will keep the
paper till to-morrow, if I may. I should like to show it to Frank. He
hasn't been to the office to-day, for he isn't very well, and he will
like to see an evening paper."

Mr. Ferrier lifted his hat with a rather sad look, and turned back
toward the house where he lodged. And as Agnes walked on she felt
disturbed and a little uncomfortable. Her clever friend had evidently
been grieved by her apparent lack of appreciation of his poem.

When she reached the church her parents had helped to build, she went
in, knelt down, and said a prayer. Then she got up and walked through
into the sacristy. Father Ferguson was almost certain to be there just
now.

Agnes Barlow