Fate walked abroad this summer night.  The street door of the pastorate opened, and in the flood of illumination which spread suddenly forth over the steps and sidewalk, Theron saw again the tall form, with the indefinitely light-hued flowing garments and the wide straw hat.  He heard a tuneful woman’s voice call out “Good-night, Maggie,” and caught no response save the abrupt closing of the door, which turned everything black again with a bang.  He listened acutely for another instant, and then with long, noiseless strides made his way down his deserted side of the street.  He moderated his pace as he turned to cross the road at the corner, and then, still masked by the trees, halted altogether, in a momentary tumult of apprehension.  No—­yes—­it was all right.  The girl sauntered out from the total darkness into the dim starlight of the open corner.

“Why, bless me, is that you, Miss Madden?”

Celia seemed to discern readily enough, through the accents of surprise, the identity of the tall, slim man who addressed her from the shadows.

“Good-evening, Mr. Ware,” she said, with prompt affability.  “I’m so glad to find you out again.  We heard you were ill.”

“I have been very ill,” responded Theron, as they shook hands and walked on together.  He added, with a quaver in his voice, “I am still far from strong.  I really ought not to be out at all.  But—­but the longing for—­for—­well, I couldn’t stay in any longer.  Even if it kills me, I shall be glad I came out tonight.”

“Oh, we won’t talk of killing,” said Celia.  “I don’t believe in illnesses myself.”

“But you believe in collapses of the nerves,” put in Theron, with gentle sadness, “in moral and spiritual and mental breakdowns.  I remember how I was touched by the way you told me you suffered from them.  I had to take what you said then for granted.  I had had no experience of it myself.  But now I know what it is.”  He drew a long, pathetic sigh.  “Oh, don’t I know what it is!” he repeated gloomily.

“Come, my friend, cheer up,” Celia purred at him, in soothing tones.  He felt that there was a deliciously feminine and sisterly intuition in her speech, and in the helpful, nurse-like way in which she drew his arm through hers.  He leaned upon this support, and was glad of it in every fibre of his being.

“Do you remember?  You promised—­that last time I saw you—­to play for me,” he reminded her.  They were passing the little covered postern door at the side and rear of the church as he spoke, and he made a half halt to point the coincidence.

“Oh, there’s no one to blow the organ,” she said, divining his suggestion.  “And I haven’t the key—­and, besides, the organ is too heavy and severe for an invalid.  It would overwhelm you tonight.”

“Not as you would know how to play it for me,” urged Theron, pensively.  “I feel as if good music to-night would make me well again.  I am really very ill and weak—­and unhappy!”