entire freedom from
home ties was almost the only thing for which he had felt profoundly
grateful in his idle life. Other boys had been obliged to bend to the
paternal will; other fellows had not been able to wander over the world
and enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But--he could not
help going on now.

"I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt I succeed in
appearing so--that is, to the outside world. But there come moments
when I would give anything for some firm belief to anchor myself to,
something higher and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near the
ants now.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help believing, that
_you_ could tell me what that is."

"Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, returning to the
sunset with heightened color.

"But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of myself; I will never
ask the conventional questions of conventional good people, whom I hate.
_You_ might influence me--But what right have I to ask you, Anne? Why
should I think that you would care?"

"I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if forced to answer.

"Then help me."

"How can I help you?"

"Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it also."

"Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God?"

"I am not sure that I do."

She clasped her hands in distress. "How _can_ you live!" she cried,
almost in tears.

Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But he could not make
himself stop now; he was too sincerely interested.

"There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. "If you do not
_feel_ God, I can not make you believe in him."

"Tell me how _you_ feel; perhaps I can learn from you."

Poor Anne! she did not know how she felt, and had no words ready.
Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she was asked to unfold her inmost soul
in the broad garish light of day.

"I--I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble.

"Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excellent little assumption
of disappointment masked by affected carelessness. "Forget what I have
said; it is of small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the house,
Miss Douglas?"

But Anne was struggling with herself, making a desperate effort to
conquer what seemed to her a selfish and unworthy timidity. "I will do
anything I can," she said, hurriedly, in a low voice.

They had both risen. "Let me see you to-morrow, then."

"Yes."

"It is a beginning," he said. He offered his arm