“I like that young man,” he said.

“Do you?” she exclaimed, with unexpected gratitude.  So do I. He really isn’t—­so bad as he must seem.”

“I’m sure of it,” said the rector, laughing.

“I was afraid you’d think him wicked,” said Nan.  “He works awfully hard, and he’s sending a brother through college.  He isn’t a bit like—­some others I know.  He wants to make something of himself.  And I feel responsible, because I had mother ask him to-night.”

He read her secret.  No doubt she meant him to do so.

“You know we’re going away next week, for the summer—­that is, mother and I,” she continued.  “Father comes later.  And I do hope you’ll make us a visit, Mr. Hodder—­we were disappointed you couldn’t come last year.”  Nan hesitated, and thrusting her hand into her gown drew forth an envelope and held it out to him.  “I intended to give you this to-night, to use—­for anything you thought best.”

He took it gravely.  She looked up at him.

“It seems so little—­such a selfish way of discharging one’s obligations, just to write out a cheque, when there is so much trouble in the world that demands human kindness as well as material help.  I drove up Dalton Street yesterday, from downtown.  You know how hot it was!  And I couldn’t help thinking how terrible it is that we who have everything are so heedless of all that misery.  The thought of it took away all my pleasure.

“I’d do something more, something personal, if I could.  Perhaps I shall be able to, next winter.  Why is it so difficult for all of us to know what to do?”

“We have taken a step forward, at any rate, when we know that it is difficult,” he said.

She gazed up at him fixedly, her attention caught by an indefinable something in his voice, in his smile, that thrilled and vaguely disturbed her.  She remembered it long afterwards.  It suddenly made her shy again; as if, in faring forth into the darkness, she had come to the threshold of a mystery, of a revelation withheld; and it brought back the sense of adventure, of the palpitating fear and daring with which she had come to meet him.

“It is something to know,” she repeated, half comprehending.  The scraping of chairs within alarmed her, and she stood ready to fly.

“But I haven’t thanked you for this,” he said, holding up the envelope.  “It may be that I shall find some one in Dalton Street—­”

“Oh, I hope so,” she faltered, breathlessly, hesitating a moment.  And then she was gone, into the house.

THE INSIDE OF THE CUP

By Winston Churchill

Volume 3.

IX.  The divine discontent
X. The messenger in the church
XI.  The lost parishioner
XII.  The woman of the song