On the brink of the Untried there is room enough to stop and look about one, to think better of it, to turn around and go back; only no man or woman was ever yet gifted with brains enough to do it. The things unknown, which loom up so temptingly into sight upon the brink of the Untried, look far more desirable, infinitely more tempting, than all the known blessings of the past. And so Mell sighed--but lifted not a finger to save herself. She went back into the little parlor to finish packing some favorite trifles in a box to be sent to the Bigge House ere she returned--school friend's mementoes and some of Rube's presents. Thus engaged, outside was heard the noise of stamping hoofs and the rumbling of wheels--some vehicle stopped at the gate--somebody came up the sanded garden path, ascended the steps, crossed the little porch and gave a hasty rap upon the front door. Mell sprang to her feet. It thrilled her strangely, that footstep on the porch, that knock upon the door. Who could be coming there at such an hour--and the night before her wedding? Rube, perhaps; something he had forgotten to do or say. She would go to the door; she started, and came back. She listened again. It was not Rube's step--it was not Rube's knock. Her senses were ever alert; she always noticed such things. But the man outside had no time to lose, and did not propose to wait there all night. He cleared his throat impatiently and knocked again. This knock was louder than the first and more peremptory. It had a remarkable effect upon Mell--a startling effect. She sank upon the nearest chair, she trembled from head to foot; wild thoughts whirled through her anarchical brain with the swiftness of a whirlwind, and it was not until the persistent intruder knocked the third time that she succeeded, through breath coming thick and fast, and half-palsied lips, faintly to call out, "Come in!" And the man came in, and the girl, crouching upon the chair, as if she would fain hide herself down in depths of concealment where he would never find her, felt no surprise, knowing already the late comer was Jerome. Jerome--but not at his best. He had been sick--or, so she thought, her affrighted eyes sweeping over him in one swift glance. Pale was his face, and careworn; physically, Jerome had never appeared so ill; spiritually, he had never appeared to better advantage. There are perplexed and ethereal truths in the heart of human things which no bloom of health ever yet expressed. The sweetness pressed out of suffering by the operations of its own nature, clothes itself in a subtler and more irresistible charm than was ever yet discovered in the hues of a pearly complexion, or the rays of a brilliant eye. From under the potent spell of its attraction, we soon forget a countenance merely beautiful; we never forget the one made beautiful through suffering.