“I don’t believe any of them ever will,” he returned.  “And yet I never pass the place that I don’t see Eskew in his old chair.  I went there last night to commune with him.  I couldn’t sleep, and I got up, and went over there; they’d left the chairs out; the town was asleep, and it was beautiful moonlight—­”

“To commune with him?  What about?”

“You.”

“Why?” she asked, plainly mystified.

“I stood in need of good counsel,” he answered, cheerfully, “or a friendly word, perhaps, and—­as I sat there—­after a while it came.”

“What was it?”

“To forget that I was sodden with selfishness; to pretend not to be as full of meanness as I really was!  Doesn’t that seem to be Eskew’s own voice?”

“Weren’t you happy last night, Joe?”

“Oh, it was all right,” he said, quickly.  “Don’t you worry.”

And at this old speech of his she broke into a little laugh of which he had no comprehension.

“Mamie came to see me early this morning,” she said, after they had walked on in silence for a time.  “Everything is all right with her again; that is, I think it will be.  Eugene is coming home.  And,” she added, thoughtfully, “it will be best for him to have his old place on the Tocsin again.  She showed me his letter, and I liked it.  I think he’s been through the fire—­”

Joe’s distorted smile appeared.  “And has come out gold?” he asked.

“No,” she laughed; “but nearer it!  And I think he’ll try to be more worth her caring for.  She has always thought that his leaving the Tocsin in the way he did was heroic.  That was her word for it.  And it was the finest thing he ever did.”

“I can’t figure Eugene out.”  Joe shook his head.  “There’s something behind his going away that I don’t understand.”  This was altogether the truth; nor was there ever to come a time when either he or Mamie would understand what things had determined the departure of Eugene Bantry; though Mamie never questioned, as Joe did, the reasons for it, or doubted those Eugene had given her, which were the same he had given her father.  For she was content with his return.

Again the bells across the Square rang out their chime.  The paths were decorously enlivened with family and neighborhood groups, bound churchward; and the rumble of the organ, playing the people into their pews, shook on the air.  And Joe knew that he must speak quickly, if he was to say what he had planned to say, before he and Ariel went into the church.

“Ariel?” He tried to compel his voice to a casual cheerfulness, but it would do nothing for him, except betray a desperate embarrassment.

She looked at him quickly, and as quickly away.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to say something to you, and I’d better do it now, I think—­before I go to church for the first time in two years!” He managed to laugh, though with some ruefulness, and continued stammeringly:  “I want to tell you how much I like him—­how much I admire him—­”