"Never," he replied. "Without it I could not have served her as I have
been able to serve her. I am wholly thankful for it. It made much
possible which must have otherwise been impossible."

"And have you never told her that you loved her--even yet?"

"No," he replied, "because, had I told her, I must have ceased to serve
her, I must have left her, Katherine, and I did not think God required
that of me."

Lady Calmady walked on in silence, her head a little bent. At the end
of the path she stood a moment, listening to the answering songs of the
two nightingales.

"Ah!" she said softly, "how greatly I have under-rated the beauty of
the dusk! To submit to dwell in the border-land, to stand on the dim
bridge, thus, between day and night, demands perhaps the very finest
courage conceivable. You have shown me, Julius, how exquisite and holy
a thing it is.--And, as to her whom you have so faithfully loved, I
think, could she know, she would thank you very deeply for never
telling her the truth. She would entreat you to keep your secret to the
end. But to remain near her, to let her seek counsel of you when in
perplexity or distress, to talk with her both of those you and she
love, and have loved, and of the promise of fair things beyond and
above our present seeing--pacing with her at times--even as you and I,
dear friend, pace together here to-night--amid the restrained and
solemn beauty of the dusk. Would she not do this?"

"It is enough that you have done it for her, Katherine," he answered.
"With your ruling I am wholly, unendingly content."

"Perhaps Dickie and Honoria's dear works of mercy and the noonday tide
of energy which flows through the house, have caused us to see less of
each other than of old," Lady Calmady continued with a charming
lightness. "That is a mistake needing correction. The young to the
young, dear Julius. You and I, who go at a quieter pace, will enjoy our
peaceful friendship to the full. I shall not tire of your company, I
promise you, if you do not of mine. Long may you be spared to me. God
keep you, most loyal friend. Goodnight."

Then Lady Calmady, deeply touched, yet unmoved from her altitude of
thankfulness and calm, musing of many matters and the working out of
them to a beneficent and noble end, slowly went the length of the
terrace to where, at the foot of the steps of the garden-hall, Richard
still sat. As she came near he held out his hand to her.

"Dear, sweet mother," he sai