ate in November; Diana was sitting at the door of the lean-to,
where she had been sitting on that June day when our story began. She
was alone this time, and her look and attitude were sadly at variance
with that former time. The November day was not without a charm of its
own which might even challenge comparison with the June glory; for it
was Indian summer time, and the wonder of soft spiritual beauty which
had settled down upon the landscape, brown and bare though that was,
left no room to regret the full verdure and radiant sunlight of high
summer. The indescribable loveliness of the haze and hush, the winning
tender colouring that was through the air and wrapped round everything,
softening, mellowing, harmonizing somehow even the most unsightly;
hiding where it could not beautify, and beautifying where it could not
hide, like Christian charity; gave a most exquisite lesson to the
world, of how much more mighty is spirit than matter. Diana did not see
it, as she had seen the June day; her arms were folded, lying one upon
another in idle fashion; her face was grave and fixed, the eyes aimless
and visionless, looking at nothing and seeing nothing; cheeks pale, and
the mouth parted with pain and questioning, its delicious childlike
curves just now all gone. So sitting, and so abstracted in her own
thoughts, she never knew that anybody was near till the little gate
opened, and then with a start she saw Mr. Masters coming up the walk.
Diana rose and stood in the doorway; all traces of country-girl
manners, if she had ever had any, had disappeared before the dignity of
a great and engrossing trouble.

"Good evening!" she said quietly, as they shook hands. "Mother's gone
out."

"Gone out, is she?" said Mr. Masters, but not with a tone of particular
disappointment.

"Yes. I believe she has gone to the Corner--to the post office."

"The Corner is a good way off. And how do you do?"

Diana thought he looked at her a little meaningly. She answered in the
customary form, that she was well.

"That says a great deal--or nothing at all," the minister remarked.

"What?" said Diana, not comprehending him.

"That form of words,--'I am well'."

"It is very apt to mean nothing at all," said Diana, "for people say it
without thinking."

"As you did just now?"

"Perhaps--but I _am_ well."

"Altogether?" said the minister. "Soul and mind and body?"

The word read dry enough; his manner, his tone, half gentle, half bold,