But Mr. Dale had nothing more to say. The picture of John Ward, walking
through the crowded street with the woman who was a sinner upheld by his
strong and tender arm, was not forgotten; and when Dick had left him, and
he had lighted his slender silver pipe in the quiet of his basement
study, he said again, "He's a good man."




CHAPTER VIII.


It was one of those deliciously cold evenings in early autumn. All day
long the sparkling sunshine-scented air had held an exhilaration like
wine, but now night had folded a thin mist across the hills, though the
clear darkness of the upper sky was filled with the keen white light of
innumerable stars.

A fire in the open grate in John Ward's study was pure luxury, for the
room did not really need the warmth. It was of that soft coal which
people in the Middle States burn in happy indifference to its dust-making
qualities, because of its charm of sudden-puffing flames, which burst
from the bubbling blackness with a singing noise, like the explosion of
an oak-gall stepped on unawares in the woods.

It had been a busy day for John, ending with the weekly prayer-meeting;
and to sit now in front of the glowing fire, with Helen beside him, was a
well-earned rest.