uncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat with
roses was still plunged into the two bare hands--it was too hot for
gloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; the
room was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man in
his black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chair
and the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again.

"Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in the
detached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything for
you unless you tell me."

The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowers
stopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I--know.
I beg--your pardon. It was--such a shock to see--you." And then, most
unexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with a
gasp--but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that--it wasn't
you I expected. I was in church--ten days ago. And the rector
said--people might come--here--and--he'd try to help them. It seemed
to me I could talk to him. He was--fatherly. But you're"--the voice
trailed into a sob--"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, but
none came. "I mean--it's harder."

"I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. And
there's no one like the rector--one could tell him anything. I know
that. But if I can help you--I'm here for that, you know. That's all
there is to consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instant
effect.

"Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herself
together, and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inward