They had walked along the road where the accident had taken place, and Lois shivered as she saw the trampled grass, though it had been her wish that they should come this way. "Oh," she said, putting her hands over her eyes, "life can never look the same to me, even if they get well!" "No," Gifford said, "I understand that. But it may have a new sweetness of gratitude, Lois." When they came to the gap in the hedge which was the outlet for the rectory path, Gifford held aside the twigs for her to enter. "Let us sit down on the stone bench a little while," he said. "This is where poor little Mr. Denner sat that afternoon. Oh," he added in a lower tone, "just think from what a grief he may have saved us! I feel as though I could never be able to show him my gratitude." Then he looked at the transplanted bunch of violets, which was fresh and flourishing, and was silent. Lois sat down a little reluctantly. The memory of that June night, nearly a year ago, flashed into her mind; she felt the color creep up to her forehead. "Oh," she thought, "how contemptible I am to have any thought but grief,--how shallow I am, how cruel!" And to punish herself for this, she rushed into speaking of her responsibility again. Gifford noticed her nervousness. "She is afraid of me," he said to himself. "She wouldn't be, if she cared." "You see, Gifford," she began, "I keep saying to myself every moment, 'I did it--it was my carelessness--all, all my fault.' Father tried to comfort me, and so did Mrs. Forsythe as soon as she could speak, and Mr. Denner has sent word that I must not give him a thought (dear Mr. Denner!), but oh, I know!" Gifford looked at her pale face, with the sweet trembling lip. "It is awfully hard for you," he said. "Every one said I was not to blame," she went on unsteadily, "that it was not my fault; but, Gifford, if they die, I shall have been their murderer!" She pressed her hands tight together to keep her self-control. "No, Lois," he answered gently, "it is not right to feel that; your will would be to die now for either of them" ("Oh, yes, yes!" she said), "so don't blame yourself any more than you must." "Than I must?" she repeated slowly, looking at him with questioning eyes. "How do you mean? They say there is no blame, Gifford." He did not answer; his face was full of a grieved reluctance. "Why," she said, with a quick breath, "do you blame me?" Gifford put his strong, steady hand impulsively over hers. "I only know how you must blame yourself," he said pitifully. "I wish I could bear the pain of it for you." "Then you say it is my fault?" she asked slowly. "Yes, Lois," he answered, looking down at her with anxious tenderness. "I wish I didn't have to say it, but if it is true, if you were careless, it's best to meet it. I--I wish you would let me help you bear it."