g anywhere. David would like to have
him make his home with us, but he told him once that he couldn't think
of it; that he only stayed in a place till the pain got to be more than
he could bear, and then he went somewhere else."

A long silence followed; then, as Mrs. Dean folded her work, she said,
softly,--

"It's no wonder he knows just how to help folks who are in trouble, for
I guess he has suffered himself more than anybody knows."

A little later she had gone indoors to superintend the preparations for
lunch, but Darrell still sat in the mellow, autumn sunlight, his eyes
closed, picturing to himself this stranger silently bearing his hidden
burden, changing from place to place, but always keeping the pain.

It still lacked two hours of sunset when John Darrell, leaning on the
arm of John Britton, walked slowly up the mountain-path to a rustic seat
under the pines. They had met at lunch. Mr. Britton had already heard
the strange story of Darrell's illness, and, looking into his eyes with
their troubled questioning, their piteous appeal, knew at once by swift
intuition how hopelessly bewildering and dark life must look to the
young man before him just at the age when it usually is brightest and
most alluring; and Darrell, meeting the steadfast gaze of the clear,
gray eyes, saw there no pity, but something infinitely broader, deeper,
and sweeter, and knew intuitively that they were united by the
fellowship of suffering, that mysterious tie which has not only bound
human hearts together in all ages, but has linked suffering humanity
with suffering Divinity.

For more than two hours Darrell, taking little part himself in the
general conversation, had watched, as one entranced, the play of the
fine features and listened to the deep, musical voice of this stranger
who was a stranger no longer.

He was an excellent conversationalist; humorous without being cynical,
scholarly without being pedantic, and showing especial familiarity with
history and the natural sciences.

At last, while walking up and down the broad veranda, Mr. Britton had
paused beside Darrell, and throwing an arm over his shoulder had said,--

"Come, my son, let us have a little stroll."

Darrell's heart had leaped strangely at the words, he knew not why, and
in a silence pregnant with deep emotion on both sides, they had climbed
to the rustic bench. Here they sat down. The ground at their feet was
carpeted with pine-needles; the air was sweet