Kieth winced, almost imperceptibly, but Lois saw it. "Oh," she said quickly, "everybody talks about everything now." "It's probably better that way." "Oh, yes, much better. Well, that's all, Kieth. I just wanted to tell you why I'm a little--luke-warm, at present." "I'm not shocked, Lois. I understand better than you think. We all go through those times. But I know it'll come out all right, child. There's that gift of faith that we have, you and I, that'll carry us past the bad spots." He rose as he spoke and they started again down the path. "I want you to pray for me sometimes, Lois. I think your prayers would be about what I need. Because we've come very close in these few hours, I think." Her eyes were suddenly shining. "Oh we have, we have!" she cried. "I feel closer to you now than to any one in the world." He stopped suddenly and indicated the side of the path. "We might--just a minute---" It was a pietà, a life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin set within a semicircle of rocks. Feeling a little self-conscious she dropped on her knees beside him and made an unsuccessful attempt at prayer. She was only half through when he rose. He took her arm again. "I wanted to thank Her for letting as have this day together," he said simply. Lois felt a sudden lump in her throat and she wanted to say something that would tell him how much it had meant to her, too. But she found no words. "I'll always remember this," he continued, his voice trembling a little---"this summer day with you. It's been just what I expected. You're just what I expected, Lois." "I'm awfully glad, Keith." "You see, when you were little they kept sending me snap-shots of you, first as a baby and then as a child in socks playing on the beach with a pail and shovel, and then suddenly as a wistful little girl with wondering, pure eyes--and I used to build dreams about you. A man has to have something living to cling to. I think, Lois, it was your little white soul I tried to keep near me--even when life was at its loudest and every intellectual idea of God seemed the sheerest mockery, and desire and love and a million things came up to me and said: 'Look here at me! See, I'm Life. You're turning your back on it!' All the way through that shadow, Lois, I could always see your baby soul flitting on ahead of me, very frail and clear and wonderful." Lois was crying softly. They had reached the gate and she rested her elbow on it and dabbed furiously at her eyes. "And then later, child, when you were sick I knelt all one night and asked God to spare you for me--for I knew then that I wanted more; He had taught me to want more. I wanted to know you moved and breathed in the same world with me. I saw you growing up, that white innocence of yours changing to a flame and burning to give light to other weaker souls. And then I wanted some day to take your children on my knee and hear them call the crabbed old monk Uncle Kieth."