Yet his conscience protested faintly. "If you would only let me tell
you"--

"Not just now," she said, and Helen's voice was a caress. "Do you
remember how, that first time we saw each other, you talked of belief?"
It was so natural to drift into reminiscence, kneeling there in the
firelight by her side, John almost forgot how the talk had begun, and
neither of them gave a thought to the lateness of the hour, until they
were roused by a quick step on the path, and heard the little gate pushed
hurriedly open, shutting again with a bang.

"Why, that's Gifford Woodhouse," John said, leaning forward to give the
fire that inevitable poke with which the coming guest is welcomed.

"No, it can't be Giff," Helen answered, listening; "he always whistles."

But it was Gifford. The quick-leaping flame lighted his face as he
entered, and Helen saw that, instead of its usual tranquil good-nature,
there was a worried look.

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," he said, as they both rose to welcome
him, and there was the little confusion of lighting the lamp and drawing
up a chair. "Haven't I interrupted you?"

"Yes," John replied simply, "but it is well you did. I have some writing
I must do to-night, and I had forgotten it. You and Helen will excuse me
if I leave you a little while?"

Both the others protested: Gifford that he was driving Mr. Ward from his
own fireside, and Helen that it was too late for work.