“It must be,” he answered her, “in God’s good time.”

“Life is terrible!” she said.  “Think of what he must have done to suffer so, to be condemned to this!  And when I went to him, just now, he wouldn’t even kiss me good-by.  Oh, my dear, if I hadn’t had you to take me, what should I have done? . . .  It never was a home to me—­to any of us.  And as I look back now, all the troubles began when we moved into it.  I can only think of it as a huge prison, all the more sinister for its costliness.”

A prison!  It had once been his own conceit.  He drew her gently away, and they walked together along Park Street towards the distant arc-light at the corner which flung a gleaming band along the wet pavement.

“Perhaps it was because I was too young to know what trouble was when we lived in Ransome Street,” she continued.  “But I can remember now how sad my mother was at times—­it almost seemed as though she had a premonition.”  Alison’s voice caught . . . .

The car which came roaring through the darkness, and which stopped protestingly at their corner, was ablaze with electricity, almost filled with passengers.  A young man with a bundle changed his place in order that they might sit together in one of the little benches bordering the aisle; opposite them was a laughing, clay-soiled group of labourers going home from work; in front, a young couple with a chubby child.  He stood between his parents, facing about, gazing in unembarrassed wonder at the dark lady with the veil.  Alison’s smile seemed only to increase the solemnity of his adoration, and presently he attempted to climb over the barrier between them.  Hodder caught him, and the mother turned in alarm, recapturing him.

“You mustn’t bother the lady, Jimmy,” she said, when she had thanked the rector.  She had dimpled cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, but their expression changed as they fell on Alison’s face, expressing something of the wonder of the child’s.

“Oh, he isn’t bothering me,” Alison protested.  “Do let him stand.”

“He don’t make up to everybody,” explained the mother, and the manner of her speech was such a frank tribute that Alison flushed.  There had been, too, in the look the quick sympathy for bereavement of the poor.

“Aren’t they nice?” Alison leaned over and whispered to Hodder, when the woman had turned back.  “One thing, at least, I shall never regret,—­that I shall have to ride the rest of my life in the streetcars.  I love them.  That is probably my only qualification, dear, for a clergyman’s wife.”

Hodder laughed.  “It strikes me,” he said, “as the supreme one.”

They came at length to Mr. Bentley’s door, flung open in its usual wide hospitality by Sam.  Whatever theist fortunes, they would always be welcome here . . . .  But it turned out, in answer to their question, that their friend was not at home.

“No, sah,” said Sam, bowing and smiling benignantly, “but he done tole me to say, when you and Miss Alison come, hit was to make no diffunce, dat you bofe was to have supper heah.  And I’se done cooked it—­yassah.  Will you kindly step into the liba’y, suh, and Miss Alison?  Dar was a lady ’crost de city, Marse Ho’ace said—­yassah.”