ure on all sorts of occasions. "She is the best-hearted woman in
the world," he thought. And then he took his note-book and went over to
the library.

Their lessons would have amused a looker-on; but there was no looker-on.
Honor was interested or absent-minded, irritable or deeply respectful,
humble or proud, by turns; she regarded him as her benefactor, and she
really wished to learn; but she was young, and impulsive, and--a girl.
There was little conversation save upon the lessons, with the exception
of one subject. The man of the world had begun his study of this girl's
deep religious faith. "If you can give it to me also, or a portion of
it," he had said, "you will be conferring a priceless gift upon me, Miss
Honor."

Then Honor would throw down her books, clasp her hands, and, with
glowing cheeks, talk to him on sacred subjects. Many a time the tears
would spring to her eyes with her own earnestness; many a time she lost
herself entirely while pleading with her whole soul. He listened to her,
thanked her, and went away. Only once did he show any emotion: it was
when she told him that she prayed for him.

"Do you really pray for me?" he said in a low tone; then he put his hand
over his eyes, and sat silent.

Honor, a little frightened, drew back. It seemed to her a very simple
act, praying for any one: she had prayed for people all her life.

One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Eliot and Honor were sitting in Adelaide's
parlor at the inn, whither she had brought them on their way home from
service. Royce and Stephen had been discovered, upon their entrance, in
two chairs at the windows; the former surrounded by a waste of
newspapers, magazines, and novels, thrown down on the floor, a general
expression of heat and weariness on his face. His companion was reading
a small, compact volume in his usual neat way. Big Royce was sprawled
over three chairs; Stephen did not fill one. Big Royce was drumming on
the window-sill; Stephen was motionless. Yet Royce, springing up and
smiling, his blue eyes gleaming, and frank gladness on his face, was a
picture that women remember; while Stephen, rising without change of
expression, was a silent contradiction to their small power, which is
never agreeable. They all sat talking for an hour, Mrs. Eliot and Mrs.
Kellinger contributing most of the sentences. Royce was in gay spirits;
Honor rather silent. Suddenly there came a sharp, cracking sound; they
all ran to the window. Through the m