Lying there, weak and weary, his eyes dwelt upon it all with vague, unspeculating wonder and faint content. Mrs. Echalaz and Lily too were always so lovely to look at, “a gude sicht for sair een,” their faces so refined, voices so low and gentle, hands so delicately fair; their dress, too, was wonderful and beautiful, like a part of themselves. He felt himself under a deepening spell in their midst; he had never seen things like the things he saw here, nor women like these women. As for Lily, he was ashamed at all she did for him, but too helpless to protest. Once, when she saw that he hardly knew how to suffer so much kindness at her hands, she said, rather sadly, “Except for me, you need not be lying here at all,” and after that he could only hold his tongue, and try to take everything graciously, owning to himself that the least he could do was this; and not owning what he perhaps scarcely knew, that all this kindness would lose its charm if she were no longer the minister. But the more the charm grew upon him the more shy and silent he became with her; and, perversely, the more he longed to see her, or at least to know that she was near, the less dared he raise his eyes or speak a word. And then he felt beyond all hiding that, to part and see her no more would be the bitterest pain he could ever know—such pain as a man must carry to his grave. He knew that he was sorry to be getting strong, and so drawing near the hour he dreaded; and then, because he felt such utter reluctance to return to his old life—the life he would feel to be so desperately lonely henceforth—he resolved to go at once. That very day he spoke to Mrs. Echalaz alone, when the evening twilight made it easier to say what he knew she would oppose with the pretty tyranny which they all exercised upon him, and which his natural shyness made it very hard for him to resist. “As if I should listen to such nonsense,” said Mrs. Echalaz, just as he had felt that she would. “You are not going for at least a week.” His thin, brown hand twitched nervously on the arm of his chair. “You are very kind,” he said, huskily—“much too kind; but I _must_ go. Please do not urge me to stay—you don’t know how hard you make it to me.” Mrs. Echalaz laid her pretty jewelled fingers on his restless hand. “Now tell me why you _must_ go,” she said, kindly; “and if it is a good reason I will allow it.” He hesitated long enough for her to divine that his answer, when it came, was an evasion. “I know it is my duty,” he said, looking down. “I shall do wrong to stay here—doing nothing.” The last two words he added rather hastily, after an instant’s embarrassment. “So you will not tell me?” said Mrs. Echalaz, reproachfully. He raised his eyes, doubting, to her face, with a strong impulse to tell her all; then he smiled faintly. “Do you not think duty the highest possible reason?” he asked, resolving to keep silence. Mrs. Echalaz looked at him.