"Because when I was wondering to whom I could go," answered Bergan, "I found myself standing before your door. Because you did me the honor, two weeks ago, to ask me a certain question, and I thought that this might be the beginning of a better answer than I was able to give you." Miss Thane slowly walked to the other end of the room, and fixed her eyes on the deep red gold of the western horizon, whence the sun still shed a soft posthumous influence over the earth. "What does it matter," she murmured to Herself, "if I do surrender somewhat of my freedom? I have had a fair trial of an isolated life--divested of every irksome bond, burden, and duty, shut up to the one friend that I trust, and the one occupation that I love--and what has it done for me? Absolutely nothing; except to make me daily colder in heart, and narrower in mind. Is it not time to try something else?" She turned back to Bergan, and her face, though it was still weary, was no longer proud. "I am sensible of the honor that you have done me," said she, with unusual gentleness; "I will try to deserve your good opinion. Where am I to find the lady of whom you speak, and in what way can I render her the most essential service?" Bergan quietly placed a chair for her. "Sit down," said he, "and let me tell you the whole story; at least, as far as I know it myself." As he talked, the gold faded out of the sky, and the gray twilight shadows crept into the room, turning the pictures on the walls into pale, vague outlines, and giving a wonderful softness to Miss Thane's listening face. Nor did the story end until the pictures had become indistinguishable masses of shadow, and nothing was left of the face but its deep, lustrous eyes. Its owner had not once spoken; and it quite escaped Bergan's notice, in the dimness, that she gave a sudden, violent start when Mrs. Lyte's full name was mentioned. "Thus, you see," he concluded, "it is not only a disappointed, discouraged, anxious heart (soon, alas! to become a mourning one) that I commend to your tender sympathies, but a sorely wounded faith. If you cannot heal the latter, do not, I charge you, help to destroy it." "I will not," answered she, solemnly; "I promise you that I will not. How could I, when I am half inclined to believe that such faith--unfounded, illusory though it be--is a better thing than any reality that we exchange it for." Bergan slightly lifted his eyebrows. "May I ask," said he, quietly, "to what reality, or realities, you refer?" "You press me hard," answered she, bitterly, after a pause; "none, none that I can think of just now. Everything seems vague, unreal, unsubstantial." "Fall back on faith," returned Bergan, smiling. "If it be not a reality itself, it works realities. It fosters real virtues, and inspires real heroism; by it men live nobly, and die courageously. What reality can do more for them,--indeed, what one does so much?"