indecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap
close by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the
two in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As
the rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the
rector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your
kindness--and patience. I am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" and
her voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tell
you," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be so
good. You are here for the rector, aren't you?"

"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do
all I can for--any one."

She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want,"
she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a
chair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now
in sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress
and the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and
patter of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note of
pleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she
said.

"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man
widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after.
They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it.
Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So
when I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be
honest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. He
seemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talk
to him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--in