She listened to the rhythm of the horse’s hoof-beats, and was not a little uneasy.  Mrs. Custer remarked the beauty of the late afternoon, the glorious symphonies of color in sky and tree, in response to which Clara said, “Yes, indeed,” and, “Isn’t it?” between long breaths.  She was about to essay a question concerning the Poor Farm, when Mrs. Custer began to speak, at first faltering, in a tone that sent the blood out of Clara’s face and drew a sudden catching pain down her breast.

“I—­really, Miss Leeds, I want to say something to you and I don’t quite know how to say it, and yet it is something I want very much for you to know.”  Mrs. Custer’s eyes looked the embarrassment of unencouraged frankness.  “I know it is presumptuous for me, almost a stranger, to speak to you, but I feel so deeply on the matter—­Everett—­Mr. Custer feels so deeply—­My dear Miss Leeds, I want you to know what a grief his loss was to us.  Oh, believe me, I am not trying to sympathize with you.  I have no right to do that.  But if you could know how Mr. Custer always regarded Mr. Copple!  It might mean something to you to know that.  I don’t think there was a man for whom he expressed greater admiration—­than what, I mean, he expressed to me.  He saw in him all that he lacked himself.  I am telling you a great deal.  It is difficult for my husband to go among men in that way—­in the way he did.  And yet he firmly believes that the Kingdom of God can only be brought to men by the ministers of God going among them and being of them.  He envied Mr. Copple his ability to do that, to know his people as one of them, to take part in their—­their sports and all that.  You don’t know how he envied him and admired him.  And his admiration was my admiration.  He brought me to see it.  I envied you, too—­your opportunity to help your people in an intimate, real way which seemed so much better than mine.  I don’t know why it is my way, but I mean going about as I do, as I did to-day to the Poor Farm.  It seems so perfunctory.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Leeds,” and Mrs. Custer laid a hand on Clara’s arm.  “There is no reason why you should care what Mr. Custer and I think about your—­about our—­all our very great loss.  But I felt that it must be some comfort for you to know that we, my husband and I, who might seem indifferent—­not that—­say unaffected by what has happened,—­feel it very, very deeply; and to know that his life, which I can’t conceive of as finished, has left a deep, deep print on ours.”

The phaeton was rolling through frequented streets.  It turned a corner as Mrs. Custer ceased speaking.

“I—­I must get out here,” said Clara Leeds.  “You needn’t drive me.  It is only a block to walk.”

“Miss Leeds, forgive me—­” Mrs. Custer’s lips trembled with compassion.

“Oh, there isn’t anything—­it isn’t that—­good night.”  Clara backed down to the street and hurried off through the dusk.  And as she went tears dropped slowly to her cheeks—­cold, wretched tears.