“I know.  But you will come again.  God tells me that.”

“I will come.  Remember, Grey, I am going to save life, not to take it.  Corrupt as I am, my hands are clean of this butchery for the sake of interest.”

Grey’s eyes wandered.  She knows nothing about the war, to be candid:  only that it is like a cold pain at her heart, day and night,—­sorry that the slaves are slaves, wondering if they could be worse off than the free negroes swarming in the back-alleys yonder,—­as sorry, being unpatriotic, for the homeless women in Virginia as for the stolen horses of Chambersburg.  Grey’s principles, though mixed, are sound, as far as they go, you see.  Just then thinking only of herself.

“You will come back to me?” clinging to his arm.

“Why, I must come back,” cheerfully, choking back whatever stopped his breath, pushing back the curling hair from her forehead with a half-reverential touch.  “I have so much, to do, little girl!  There is a farm over yonder I mean to earn enough to buy, where you and I shall rest and study and grow,—­stronger and healthier, more helpful every day.  We’ll find our work and place in the world yet, poor child!  You shall show me what a pure, earnest life is, Grey, and above us—­what there is there,” lowering his voice.  “And I,—­how much I have to do with this bit of humanity here on my hands!”—­playfully.  “An unhewn stone, with the beautiful statue lying perdu within.  Bid you know you were that, Grey? and I the sculptor?”

She looked up bewildered.

“It is true,” passing his fingers over the low, broad, curiously moulded forehead.  “My girl does not know what powers and subtile forces lie asleep beneath this white skin?  I know.  I know lights and words and dramas of meaning these childish eyes hold latent:  that I will set free.  I will teach your very silent lips a new language.  You never guessed how like a prison your life has been, how unfinished you are; but I thank God for it, Grey.  You would not have loved me, if it had been different; I can grow with you now, grow to your height, if—­He helps me.”

He took off his hat, and stood, looking silently into the deep blue above,—­for the first time in his life coming to his Friend with a manly, humble look.  His eyes were not clear when he spoke again, his voice very quiet.

“Good bye, Grey!  I’m going to try to be a better man than I’ve ever been.  You are my wife now in His eyes.  I need you so:  for life and for eternity, I think.  You will remember that?”

And so, holding her to his heart a moment or two, and kissing her lips passionately once or twice, he left her, trying to smile as he went down the path, but with a strange clogging weight in his breast, as if his heart would not beat.

Going in, Grey found the old negro asleep over his knitting, the candle with a flaring black crust beside him.

“He waited for me,” she said; and as she stroked the skinny old hand, the tears came at the thought of it.  Everybody was so kind to her!  The world was so foil of love!  God was so good to her to-night!