be wonderful good, fer he can think God would send my Tom to hell, and
yet he can love Him! I couldn't do it."

"Oh, he is good!" Helen cried, with a great leap of her heart.

The wind blew the powdered snow about, as she walked home in the cold
white dusk, piling it in great drifts, or leaving a ridge of earth swept
bare and clean. The blackened lumber-yards were quite deserted in the
deepening chill which was felt as soon as the sun set; the melting snow
on the hot, charred planks had frozen into long icicles, and as she
stopped to look at the ruin one snapped, and fell with a splintering
crash.

One of those strangely unsuggested remembrances flashed into her mind:
the gleam of a dove's white wing against the burning blue of a July sky,
the blaze of flowers in the rectory garden, and the subtle, penetrating
fragrance of mignonette. Perhaps the contrast of the intense cold and the
gathering night brought the scene before her; she sighed; if she and John
could go away from this grief and misery and sin, which they seemed
powerless to relieve, and from this hideous shadow of Calvinism!

"After all," she thought, hurrying along towards home and John, "Mrs.
Davis is right,--it is hard to love Him. He does not give a chance to
every one; none of us can escape the inevitable past. And that is as hard
as to be punished unjustly. And there is no help for it all. Oh, where is
God?"

Just as she left the lumber-yard district, she heard her name called, and
saw Gifford Woodhouse striding towards her. "You have been to those poor
Davises I suppose," he said, as he reached her side, and took her empty