“He shall not have her,” he whispered to himself.  “She is mine.  How dare he name her!”

Only for a moment did he give himself to the ecstasy of rage.  Then his arms fell and he stood straight and calm and strong, master of himself once more.

“What right have I?” he groaned wearily pressing his hands to his head.  “Who am I that any woman should desire me.  Clay, with his easy grace, his wit, his manliness, his handsome face, no wonder that she prefers him, any woman would, and Clay is worthy, more worthy,” he thought in an agony of renunciation.  He thought of Clay’s life as he had known it now for years.  So fair and open and clean.  “Yes, Clay is worthy of her.”  He repeated it dully to himself as he walked up and down.

Every incident of the past three months came back to him now with cruel distinctness—­the sweetness of her voice, the glorious beauty of her face, so full sometimes of life’s pain, so strong too in the overcoming of it, and her little hands—­oh what pretty little hands they were—­ he had held them once only for a moment, but she must have felt the love that throbbed in his touch, and he had thought that perhaps—­perhaps Oh, unutterable blind fool that he was!

He pressed his hands again to his head and groaned aloud; and He who hears the cry of the child or of the strong man in agony drew near and laid His pierced hands upon him in healing and benediction.

The next Sunday the Reverend Hugh Grantley was at his best, and his sermons had a new quality that appealed to and comforted many a weary one who, like himself, was traveling by the thorn-road.

In Mrs. McGuire’s little house there was nothing to disturb the reading now, for the minister came no more, but the joyousness had all gone from Mary’s voice, and Mrs. McGuire found herself losing all interest in Christian’s struggles as she looked at Mary’s face.

Once she saw the minister pass and she beat upon the window with her knitting needle, but he hurried by without looking up.  Then the anger of Mrs. McGuire was kindled mightily, and she sometimes woke up in the night to express her opinion of him in the most lurid terms she could think of, feeling meanwhile the futility of human speech.  It was a hard position for Mrs. McGuire, who had always been able to settle her own affairs with ease and grace.

One day when this had been going on about a month, Mrs. McGuire sat in her chintz-covered rocking-chair and thought hard, for something had to be done.  She narrowed her black eyes into slits and thought and thought.  Suddenly she started as if she heard something, and perhaps she did—­the angel who brought the inspiration may have whirred his wings a little.

Mary Barner was coming that afternoon to “red up” a little for her, for her rheumatism had been very bad.  With wonderful agility she rose and made ready for bed.  First, however, she carefully examined the latch on her kitchen door.  Now this latch had a bad habit of locking itself if the door was closed quickly.  Mrs. McGuire tried it and found it would do this every time, and with this she seemed quite satisfied.