There was a silence.

“Now,” breathed Cicely softly—­“now the Amen!”

Full and grave came the solemn chord and the young fresh voices with it,—­

“A—­men!” And then Cicely went up to Maryllia and bent over her.

“Are you pleased, dearest?”

She was very quiet.  There were tears in her eyes, but at the question, she smiled.

“Very pleased!  And very happy!  Take the children away now and give them tea.  And thank them all for me,—­say I will see them again some day when I am stronger—­when I do not feel inclined to cry quite so easily!”

In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had made their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to herself in the deepening twilight,—­a twilight illumined brightly every now and again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log fire.  Suddenly the door which had just been closed after the children, gently opened again, and Cicely entering, said in rather a tremulous voice—­

“Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia.”

Whereat she quickly disappeared.

Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched John’s tall straight figure slowly approaching.  A delicate, Spring-like odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that he carried a bunch of violets.  Then she held out her hand.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!”

He tried to speak, but could not.  Without a word he laid the violets gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch.  She took them up at once and kissed them.

“How sweet they are!” she murmured—­“The first I have had given to me this year!”

She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair close beside her.

“Will you sit near me?” she said—­“And then we can talk!”

Silently he obeyed.  To see her lying there so quietly resigned and helpless, nearly unmanned him, but he did brave battle with his own emotions.  He took her little offered hand and gently kissed it.  If to touch its soft smooth whiteness sent fire through his veins, there was no sign of feeling in his face.  He was grave and strangely impassive.

“I am grieved to see you like this—–­” he began.

“Yes, I am sure you are!” she quickly interrupted him—­“But please do not talk about it just now!  I want to forget my poor crippled body altogether for a little while.  I’ve had so much bother with it lately!  I want to talk to you about my soul.  That’s not crippled.  And you can tell me just what it is and what I am to do with it.”

He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder.

“Your soul!”—­he murmured,

“Yes.”  And a shadow of sad and wistful thought darkened her features—­“You see I may not live very long,—­and I ought to be properly prepared in case I die.  I know you will explain everything that is difficult to me,—­because you seem to be sure of your faith.  You remember your sermon on the soul, when I came to church just that once?”