sank into a chair, and in utter recklessness abandoned himself to the
tide of grief which seemed waiting to overwhelm him.

Oh there are terrible moments in human experience, moments when even the
Christian is so haunted by the demon of unbelief, when the dire enemy of
God and man takes advantage of some unpropitious circumstance, some
painful affliction, to taunt the soul, already almost crushed, and to
inquire, with fiendish malignity, "Where is now thy God?" that if not
wholly overcome, he, at least, escapes alone with fearful wounds from
the trying conflict; how then can that one sustain the assault who is
totally unprepared, and who knows but little of the source from whence
alone help can come? Well, indeed, for frail humanity, that there is a
tender, pitying Father, who "knoweth our frame, and remembereth we are
dust," and oftentimes, when our need is sorest, sends, in his own good
way, unexpected relief.

With his face buried in his hands, heedless of the lapse of time, and of
anything save his own absorbing emotion, Arthur still sat in the
armchair, into which he had thrown himself, his thoughts dwelling, with
strange pertinacity, upon the past,--the past that seemed to mock him
now.

They expected very shortly to have returned home, and he had anticipated
so much pleasure in that return. He had never analyzed the source of
that pleasure, but now that it was removed, he saw it too clearly; it
was the hope, the expectation, of meeting with her. He recalled to mind
the hours he had passed with her,--happy hours, all too quickly flown;
her winning smile, the sweetly persuasive tones of her voice, her
earnest and thoughtful manner, all came back to haunt him with their
memory. Oh, how distinctly he remembered one of the last conversations