that softly breathing plant life around her.  It was the hour for which she had hungered for weeks, yet now that it had come, she could hardly recognize it for the thing she had wanted.  A sudden blight had fallen over her, as though she had brought the presence of death with her out of that still chamber.  Every sound was hushed into silence, every object appeared as unsubstantial as a shadow.  Beyond the lawn, over the jewelled meadows, she could see the white spire of Old Church rising above the coloured foliage in the churchyard, and beyond it, the flat ashen turnpike, which had led hundreds of adventurous feet toward the great world they were seeking.  She remembered that the sight of the turnpike had once made her restless; now it brought her only a promise of peace.

Turning at the sound of a step on the dead leaves, she saw that Abel had entered the garden, and was approaching her along one of the winding paths.  When he reached her, he spoke quickly without taking her outstretched hand.  The sun was in his eyes and he lowered them to the over-blown roses in a square of box.

“I came over earlier,” he said, “but I couldn’t see any one except Mr. Chamberlayne.”

“He told me you would come back.  That was why I waited.”

For a moment he seemed to struggle for breath.  Then he said quickly.

“Molly, do you believe it was an accident?”

She started and her hands shook.

“He said so at the end—­otherwise—­how—­how could it have happened?”

“Yes, how could it have happened?” he repeated, and added after a pause, “He was a fine fellow.  I always liked him.”

Her tears choked her, and when she had recovered her voice, she put a question or two about Blossom—­delaying, through some instinct of flight, the moment for which she had so passionately longed.

“It was all so unnecessary,” she said, “that is the worst of it.  It might just as easily not have happened.”

“I wish I could be of some use,” he answered.  “Perhaps Mr. Chamberlayne has thought of something he would like me to do?”

“He is in the library.  Uncle Abednego will show you.”

He put out his hand, “Then good-bye, Molly,” he said gently.

But at the first touch of his fingers the spell was broken, and the mystery of life, not of death, rushed over her like waves of light.  She knew now that she was alive—­that the indestructible desire for happiness was still in her heart.  The meaning of life did not matter while the exquisite, the burning sense of its sweetness remained.

“Abel,” she said with a sob, half of joy, half of sorrow, “if I go on my knees, will you forgive me?”

He had turned away, but at her voice, he stopped and looked back with the sunlight in his eyes.

“There isn’t any forgiveness in love, Molly,” he answered.

“Then—­oh, then if I go on my knees will you love me?”

He smiled, and even his smile, she saw, had lost its boyish brightness and grown sadder.