soul. Don't stop being great; that's the one crime he'll never
forgive you."

She faltered, "Who--who forgives?"

"Gerald."

At the sound of his name she slid forward, and all her dishonesty
left her. She acknowledged that life's meaning had vanished.
Bending down, she kissed the footprint. "How can he forgive me?"
she sobbed. "Where has he gone to? You could never dream such an
awful thing. He couldn't see me though I opened the door--wide--
plenty of light; and then he could not remember the things that
should comfort him. He wasn't a--he wasn't ever a great reader,
and he couldn't remember the things. The rector tried, and he
couldn't--I came, and I couldn't--" She could not speak for
tears. Rickie did not check her. He let her accuse herself, and
fate, and Herbert, who had postponed their marriage. She might
have been a wife six months; but Herbert had spoken of
self-control and of all life before them. He let her kiss the
footprints till their marks gave way to the marks of her lips.
She moaned. "He is gone--where is he?" and then he replied quite
quietly, "He is in heaven."

She begged him not to comfort her; she could not bear it.

"I did not come to comfort you. I came to see that you mind. He
is in heaven, Agnes. The greatest thing is over."

Her hatred was lulled. She murmured, "Dear Rickie!" and held up