Alfaretta could not speak as she met them at the gate, but ran by Helen's side, and furtively kissed her hand. There was a light burning in the study, but Helen stood at the table in the hall and took off her bonnet and cloak. "I will go and tell him you are here," Gifford said, trying to detain her as she turned to go up-stairs. "He knows," she said calmly, and left Gifford and the servant standing in the entry. She did not even pause at the door; there seemed no need to gather strength for the shock of that meeting; she was all strength and love. The room was lighted only by the fire, and the bed was in shadow. There were no words; those empty, dying arms were stretched out to her, and she gathered him close to her heart. The house was strangely silent. Again and again Gifford crept up to the door, but all was quite still; once he heard that soft sound which a mother makes when she soothes her baby on her breast, and again a low murmur, which died away as though even words were an intrusion. All that long winter day, Gifford, in his intense anxiety lest Helen should not come in time, and his distress for the sorrow of this little household, had been calmed and comforted by John's serene courage. He knew that death was near, but there was an exultant look in his fading eyes, and sometimes his lips moved in grateful prayer. Perhaps his physical extremity had dulled his fears for his wife's salvation into a conviction that his death was to be the climax of God's plans for her. He was bewildered at the temptation of greater joy at the prospect of her presence than gratitude that God should save her soul alive. But he never for one moment doubted she would come to tell him she had found the light. The night wore heavily on. Gifford stationed himself upon the stairs, outside the door; the doctor came, and then went quietly down to John's study, and found a book to while away the time. And then they waited. When the first faint lightening of the sky came and the chill of dawn began to creep through the silent house, Helen came out of the closed room. She put her hand upon Gifford's shoulder. "Go and rest," she said; "there is no need to sit here any longer. John is dead." CHAPTER XXXI. After it was all over, they begged her to go back to Ashurst. "You can't stay here," Lois entreated--she had come with Mr. Dale as soon as the news of John Ward's death reached Ashurst--"you can't live among these people, Helen." But Helen shook her head. "They are John's people. I cannot go yet." Lois thought with a shiver of the exhortations of the clergymen who had come to the funeral to officiate. She wondered how Helen could stay where every one had heard her sin of unbelief publicly prayed for; yet, with her cousin's brave sad eyes upon her, she dared not give this as a reason why Helen should leave Lockhaven.