One afternoon, late in September, she went as usual, alone, to the graveyard on East Hill. The blue haze lay like a ribbon through the valley and across the hills; the air was still, and full of the pungent fragrance of burning brush, and yellow leaves rustled about her feet. The faded grass had been beaten down by the rain, and was matted above the graves; here and there a frosted weed stood straight and thin against the low soft sky; some late golden-rod blazed along the edge of the meadow among the purple asters, and a single stalk of cardinal flowers flashed out beside the lichen-covered wall; but all the rest of the world was a blur of yellow and gray. Helen sat down on a stone, and listened to the small wood sounds around her. A beech leaf, twisted like the keel of a fantastic boat, came pattering down on the dead leaves; a bird stirred in the pine behind her, and now and then a cricket gave a muffled chirp. It was here Mr. Dale found her, her head resting forlornly on her hands; she was absently watching a gray squirrel who had ventured from his cover in the wall, and was looking at her with curious twinkling eyes. "My dear," said Mr. Dale gently, "they told me at the rectory they thought you were up here, so I came to see if you would let me walk home with you." Helen started as he spoke, and the squirrel scampered away. "Did you come for that?" she said, touched in spite of her bitter thoughts. Mr. Dale pushed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head, so that his face seemed to have a black aureola around it. "Yes," he replied, regarding her with anxious blue eyes,--"yes. I am grieved to have you so much alone; yet I know how natural it is to desire to be alone." Helen did not answer. "I hope," he went on, hesitating, "you will not think I intrude if I say--I came because I wanted to say that I have a great respect for your husband, Helen." Helen turned sharply, as though she would have clasped his hands, and then put her own over her face, which was quivering with sudden tears. Mr. Dale touched her shoulder gently. "Yes, a great respect. Love like his inspires reverence. It is almost divine." Helen's assent was inaudible. "Not, my dear," the old man continued, "that I do not regret--yes, with all my heart I deplore--the suffering for you both, by which his love is proved. Yet I recognize with awe that it is love. And when one has come so near the end of life as I have, it is much to have once seen love. We look into the mysteries of God when we see how divine a human soul can be. Perhaps I have no right to speak of what is so sacredly yours, yet it is proper that you should know that the full meaning of this calamity can be understood. It is not all grief, Helen, to be loved as you are." She could not speak; she clung to him in a passion of tears, and the love and warmth she had thought she should never feel again began to stir about her heart.