his pocket to aid the sufferers. Perhaps at the foundation of all lay
one haunting thought--Helen! If he did what he could for others, Helen
would safer. He never audibly admitted that Helen was in any danger,
but--but--if there should be danger, he was, he hoped, paying a ransom
for her safety.

In six weeks the epidemic appeared to have spent itself. There was a
talk of resuming full hours at the works. Twenty new hands had been
sent for to fill vacant places. Still there was a shadow on the
dominie's face, and he knew himself there was a shadow on his heart.
Was it the still solemnity of death in which he had lately lived so
much? Or was it the shadow of a coming instead of a departing sorrow?

One afternoon he thought he would go and sit with Helen a little
while. During his close intimacy with the colliers he had learned many
things which would change his methods of working for their welfare;
and of these changes he wished to speak with Helen. She was just going
for a walk on the moor, and he went with her. It was on such a
September evening she had walked last with Colin. As they sauntered
slowly, almost solemnly home, she remembered it. Some impulse far
beyond her control or understanding urged her to say, "Dominie, when I
am gone I leave Colin to you."

He looked at her with a sudden enlightenment. Her face had for a
moment a far-away death-like predestination over it. His heart sank
like lead as he looked at her.

"Are you ill, Helen?"

"I have not been well for two weeks."