"In some small measure, yes. I can certify you that the medicine is good, because I have taken it; that the staff is strong, because I have leaned upon it; that the weapon is efficient, because I have fought with it. Allow me to hope that you do not need the certification." Her eyes fell, and her cheek flushed slightly, but she answered with her usual straightforward candor:--"I was never taught to pray;--my mother died when I was born, and my father believed none of these things. I have no habit of prayer." "Does no one pray for you?" "I don't know--Coralie, perhaps." Bergan looked down upon her, and a sudden moisture dimmed his eyes. His heart was taken complete possession of, for the moment, by a vast, sorrowful pity for this beautiful and gifted woman, who masked so empty and aching a heart with so cold a demeanor, impelling him irresistibly to help her, as he could. "When you are next asked that question," said he, and there was a deep, rich melody in his voice, "do not say that you 'don't know,' for I promise to put up a prayer for you daily, from henceforth, until you send me word that you have learned to pray habitually and gladly for yourself. Hereafter, when you lie down to rest, remember that another--claiming no title of friend, but simply that of neighbor--has asked forgiveness for your day, protection for your night, and every strength that you need for your morrow." The proud heart was touched at last. That is to say, Bergan's words were the effectual "last drop" in the full cup of the evening's varied emotions,--comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the less inevitably productive of overflow. Miss Thane's lips parted with a kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly suggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to foot. Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree by the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while tears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the moonlight. Yet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no sound, nor shook with any sob. Grief must be content to exercise over her limited, not absolute dominion. Bergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out over the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the moon-silvered hills. Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford most safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement, whatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from the evening's events. For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he had no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a heart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.