ust herself to me.

I carried her down the silent church; but no longer did my lantern
throw weird shadows on the floor; no longer were the pews filled with
forbidding spectres. For now the church was full of bright rejoicing
angels.

When I came to the church door, and saw the heavy clanging keys, I
wondered what I was to do with them.

The old sexton would lose his senses if he were to see the precious
burden I bore. I locked the great door and took her out into the
silent night.

I no longer needed the lantern; the light of the moon was clear and
bright. It was indeed a relief. To me, after being immured in the
church, the clear, pure air was welcome beyond expression. And if it
was welcome to me, it was a thousand times more so to Ruth. I do not
think she fully realised from what she had escaped until now. She gave
a cry of gladness, such as a bird gives when freed from a cage. Behind
her were suspense, cruelty, doubt, despair, death and the grave; before
her--ah, what?

I bore her on, feeling no weariness, no pain, no sorrow. The
gravestones told me no sad stories, the shadows of the trees were only
beautiful pictures painted on the green grass.

When I came to the churchyard gate I saw the old sexton.

"What have 'ee got there?" he gasped.

[Illustration: "'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped."]

"Take your keys and lantern," I said.

He took them both mechanically, and then looked at Ruth awestruck.

"Where did 'ee take et from?" he said, in a hoarse whisper.

"Her grave," I said.

He took a look at Ruth's face, which was clearly to be seen in the
moonlight, and immediately recognised it.

"Great Loard!" he cried, "'tes our dead lady's face, 'tes our dead
lady, and the devil have got her."

With a cry which showed how real were both his fear and belief, he
rushed away from us.

I did not stop him: I did not think it necessary; soon the truth must
come out, and then all his fears would be allayed.

Never shall I forget the journey from the village church to the home of
the Mortons. My joy was so great that I did not feel Ruth's weight at
all, and when she asked me anxiously, yet lovingly, if she wearied me,
I only pressed her more closely to my heart, while she only nestled
more contentedly. And small wonder? Had I not brought her back from
the dead, and had she not found herself free from the terrible chain
that bound her, free to speak to the man she loved?

Nearer and nearer