This conversation fell on the soul of Mary like the sound of clods falling on a coffin to the ear of one buried alive;—­she heard it with a dull, smothering sense of suffocation. That question to be raised?—­and about one, too, for whom she could have given her own soul?  At this moment she felt how idle is the mere hope or promise of personal salvation made to one who has passed beyond the life of self, and struck deep the roots of his existence in others.  She did not utter a word;—­how could she?  A doubt,—­the faintest shadow of a doubt,—­in such a case, falls on the soul with the weight of mountain certainty; and in that short ride she felt what an infinite pain may be locked in one small, silent breast.

The wagon drew up to the house of mourning.  Cato stood at the gate, and came forward, officiously, to help them out.  “Mass’r and Missis will be glad to see you,” he said.  “It’s a drefful stroke has come upon ’em.”

Candace appeared at the door.  There was a majesty of sorrow in her bearing, as she received them.  She said not a word, but pointed with her finger towards the inner room; but as Mary lifted up her faded, weary face to hers, her whole soul seemed to heave towards her like a billow, and she took her up in her arms and broke forth into sobbing, and, carrying her in, as if she had been a child, set her down in the inner room and sat down beside her.

Mrs. Marvyn and her husband sat together, holding each other’s hands, the open Bible between them.  For a few moments nothing was to be heard but sobs and unrestrained weeping, and then all kneeled down to pray.

After they rose up, Mr. Zebedee Marvyn stood for a moment thoughtfully, and then said,—­“If it had pleased the Lord to give me a sure evidence of my son’s salvation, I could have given him up with all my heart; but now, whatever there may be, I have seen none.”  He stood in an attitude of hopeless, heart-smitten dejection, which contrasted painfully with his usual upright carriage and the firm lines of his face.

Mrs. Marvyn started as if a sword had pierced her, passed her arm round Mary’s waist, with a strong, nervous clasp, unlike her usual calm self, and said,—­“Stay with me, daughter, to-day!—­stay with me!”

“Mary can stay as long as you wish, cousin,” said Mrs. Scudder; “we have nothing to call her home.”

“Come with me!” said Mrs. Marvyn to Mary, opening an adjoining door into her bedroom, and drawing her in with a sort of suppressed vehemence,—­“I want you!—­I must have you!”

“Mrs. Marvyn’s state alarms me,” said her husband, looking apprehensively after her when the door was closed; “she has not shed any tears, nor slept any, since she heard this news.  You know that her mind has been in a peculiar and unhappy state with regard to religious things for many years.  I was in hopes she might feel free to open her exercises of mind to the Doctor.”

“Perhaps she will feel more freedom with Mary,” said the Doctor.  “There is no healing for such troubles except in unconditional submission to Infinite Wisdom and Goodness.  The Lord reigneth, and will at last bring infinite good out of evil, whether our small portion of existence be included or not.”