had had their little romance, like happier husbands and wives.

John did not answer her, but a mist of tears gathered in his eyes.

Mrs. Davis raised her head and looked at him. "Tell me, you don't think
it will be counted a sin to him, do you? You don't think he died in sin?"
she asked almost fiercely.

"I wish I could say I did not," he answered.

She threw her hands up over her head with a shrill cry.

"You don't think he's lost? Say you don't, preacher,--say you don't!"

John took her hands in his. "Try and think," he said gently, "how brave
Tom was, how nobly he faced death to save Charley. Leave the judgments
of God to God; they are not for us to think of."

But she would not be put off in that way. Too weak to kneel, she had sunk
upon the floor, leaning still against the bed, with one thin, gaunt arm
thrown across her husband's body.

"You think," she demanded, "that my Tom's lost because he was drunk
to-night?"

"No," he said, "I do not think that, Mrs. Davis."

"Is he saved?" she cried, her voice shrill with eagerness.

John was silent. She clutched his arm with her thin fingers, and shook it