“You believe there is a God, then?”

“Certainly; do you not?” and Mr. Heath’s kind, grave eyes looked pityingly into the haggard, sunken face before him.

They seemed almost to say, “If you have not this belief to comfort you, with the hand of death laid upon your very heart, I grieve inexpressibly for you.”

“If there is, I imagine He must allow Satan to have the control of some of our lives,” was the evasive and bitter retort.  “Virgie, Mr. Heath’s cup is empty.”

But his face flushed and his hands trembled as he thus abruptly turned the topic, showing how deeply the subject moved him; notwithstanding his pretended unbelief.

“Thanks; no more coffee for me,” Mr. Heath said, with a smile and a bow to his young hostess, as she offered to replenish his cup; but he noticed that there was a troubled, anxious look in her eyes as they rested upon her father.

He made no reply to Mr. Abbot’s remark, although he looked a trifle hurt.

He simply said, as he folded his napkin and pushed back his plate: 

“I must ask you to excuse me and my lack of ceremony if I bid you good morning, and take French leave.  I feel that I ought to get on my way as soon as possible; and believe me I am very grateful for your hospitality and courtesy.”

Virgie arose as he spoke, and like the true little lady that she was, assured him that it had been a delight to entertain him, and she should look forward with pleasure to his return.

He thanked her, shook hands warmly with her, and then left the house, followed by Mr. Abbot, who watched him depart with a feeling of regret such as he had not experienced over any one during all the years of his exile.

Still he pleasantly anticipated his coming again, when he meant to make him remain several days.

He had been strangely attracted toward him from the moment when he had first heard his mellow, sympathetic tones, asking to be directed to a place of shelter.  He knew that he possessed a grand character, for he carried the stamp of true nobility upon his frank, handsome face.

“That is a promising young man, Virgie,” he said, as he returned to the parlor after watching the horse and its rider disappear down the mountain.  “I should like to know where he came from, and more about him.”

Virgie did not reply, but she turned away from the window where she, too, had been watching the receding horseman, with a shy, sweet smile on her red lips.  William Heath’s last glance had been for her, as he doffed his hat and bowed low in his saddle when he turned down the road.

During all the week that followed her step was lighter and her face brighter than its wont, and she went singing about the house to the delight of her father, who was now at home all the day long, as he had given up going to the mine.

Mr. Abbot had appeared very thoughtful after the departure of his young guest, often falling into a profound reverie, in which he would sit for hours.