It is true that communication between them had been but rare.  Mrs. Yorke had objected to any correspondence, and he now began to see, though dimly, that her objection was natural.  But from time to time, on anniversaries, he had sent her a book, generally a book of poems with marked passages in it, and had received in reply a friendly note from the young lady, over which he had pondered, and which he had always treasured and filed away with tender care.

Keith took the stage that night for Eden on his way to New York.  As they drove through the pass in the moonlight he felt as if he were soaring into a new life.  He was already crossing the mountains beyond which lay the Italy of his dreams.

He stopped on his way to see his father.  The old gentleman’s face glowed with pleasure as he looked at Gordon and found how he had developed.  Life appeared to be reopening for him also in his son.

“I will give you a letter to an old friend of mine, John Templeton.  He has a church in New York.  But it is not one of the fashionable ones; for

     “’Unpractised he to fawn or seek for power
     By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour: 
     Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
     More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.’

“You will find him a safe adviser.  You will call also and pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.”

On his way, owing to a break in the railroad, Keith had to change his train at a small town not far from New York.  Among the passengers was an old lady, simply and quaintly dressed, who had taken the train somewhere near Philadelphia.  She was travelling quite alone, and appeared to be much hampered by her bags and parcels.  The sight of an old woman, like that of a little girl, always softened Keith’s heart.  Something always awoke in him that made him feel tender.  When Keith first observed this old lady, the entire company was streaming along the platform in that haste which always marks the transfer of passengers from one train to another.  No one appeared to notice her, and under the weight of her bags and bundles she was gradually dropping to the rear of the crowd.  As Keith, bag in hand, swung past her with the rest, he instinctively turned and offered his services to help carry her parcels.  She panted her thanks, but declined briefly, declaring that she should do very well.

“You may be doing very well,” Keith said pleasantly, “but you will do better if you will let me help you.”

“No, thank you.”  This time more firmly than before.  “I am quite used to helping myself, and am not old enough for that yet.  I prefer to carry my own baggage,” she added with emphasis.

“It is not the question of age, I hope, that gives me the privilege of helping a lady,” said Keith.  He was already trying to relieve her of her largest bag and one or two bundles.

A keen glance from a pair of very bright eyes was shot at him.