flashes of mirth at the
expense of both priest and people, delicate sarcasms, the more searching
from their very refinement, awoke in her brain and were swiftly
transcribed. In the middle of one of the most daring sentences Raeburn
stirred. Erica's pen was thrown down at once; she was at his side
absorbed once more in attending to his wants, forgetful quite of
religious controversy, of the "Idol-Breaker," of anything in fact in the
whole world but her father. Not till an hour had passed was she free to
finish her writing, but by the time her aunt came to relieve guard at
two o'clock the article was finished and Erica stole noiselessly into
the next room to put it up.

To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed. He was still
toiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; she could almost
have smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief and sleepiness on his
face, had not her own heart been so loaded with care and sadness. The
post brought in what Tom described as "bushels" of letters every day,
and he was working away at them now with sleepy heroism.

"How tired you look," said Erica. "See! I have brought in this for the
'Idol.'"

"You've been writing it now! That is good of you. I was afraid we should
have to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's."

He took the sheets from her and began to read. Laughter is often only
one remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sad-hearted enough, could
not keep his countenance through Erica's article. First his shoulders
began to shake, then he burst into such a paroxysm of noiseless laughter
that Erica, fearing that he could not restrain himself, and would be
heard in the sick-room, pulled the towel from his forehead over his
mouth; then, conquered herself by the absurdity of his appearance, she
was obliged to bury her own face in her hands, laughing more and more
whenever the incongruousness of the laughter occurred to her. When they
had exhausted themselves the profound depression which had been the real
cause of the violent reaction returned with double force. Tom sighed
heavily and finished reading the article with the gravest of faces. He
was astonished that Erica could have written at such a time an article
positively scintillating with mirth.

"How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights?" he asked.

"Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello," said Erica. "He
never laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his love