service. What a noble fellow he had been!
How his personality and charm struck one at the first glance. He had
been one of those men who claimed friends as they came his way, without
pledge of time or intimacy. He knew what was his own in life, and
gripped it without question or explanation. He had been the first to
understand Drew's ambition, so different from the ones of the social set
in which they both moved.

"You'll always find me at your elbow, Drew," he had said, "in any scheme
you start." But when the time came--Dale had slipped out of life as
bravely and cheerfully as he had always lived. "And he had his own deep
trouble," Drew mused as he prepared to bank the fire; "he never talked
about it; but it made him what he was. One must go through some sort of
fire to be of real service."

A light tap on the door startled him. He had been, in thought, far, far
from St. Ange.

"Come!"

The door opened slowly and Ruth Dale entered.

She was all in white--a soft, long, trailing gown. Her hair had been
loosened from the coronet, and fell in two shining braids over her
shoulders. She looked very girlish as she came to the fire and dropped
into a deep chair.

"Please put on more logs," she said softly. "Father Confessor, I've come
to confess." There was something under the playfulness that touched
Drew. "I told Connie that I wanted to talk to you about a plan of mine;
well, so it is, but I want you to put the stamp of your sage approval
upon it."

Drew shook his head.

"Hardly that," he said with a laugh, "but I'm willing to plot with you."

"I always think of you now," Ruth Dale continued, leaning toward the
crackling logs, and holding her little benumbed hands open to the heat,
"as 'the man who lives in his house by the side of the road, and is a
friend to man'. Ralph, I need a friend! I must have one or I shall fail
in that which I have set myself to do."

There was no lightness in the woman's manner now. She looked tragic;
almost desperate.

Ralph Drew waited for her to go on. He was prepared to follow, but he
could not lead.

Her youthfulness of appearance struck him now as it often had before;
but the worn look in the eyes emphasized it to-night.

"You look tired, Ruth," he said kindly; "won't to-morrow--or"--for he
saw it was well on toward one o'clock--"later in the day do?"

"Unless you are too weary to bide with me one little hour?" she replied
wistfully; "it had better be now."

"You know wh