"I trust you are not angry with me, sir," said the curate mildly, for Sir John was holding out his hand to be shaken. "Well, yes, I am. Anything like this causes one such worry, you know. I'm sure I and my wife have had no sleep all night. You must not think any more of Helen. And now good-morning." As Mr. Leafchild walked back to his lodgings at Dame Bean's, his hopes seemed to be about as dull as the wintry sky on which his nice brown eyes were fixed. His whole happiness, socially speaking, lay in Helen; hers lay with him; but only separation seemed to be looming in the air. Suddenly, when he was close to Marigold Cottage, a little rift broke in the leaden clouds, and a bit of pale blue sky shone forth. "I will take that as an omen for good; pray God it may be so!" spoke the curate gladly and reverently, as he lifted his hat. "And--come what may, in storm and in tempest, God is over all." Helen went home in the dumps and to sundry edifying lectures. An embargo was laid on her parish work, and she only saw the curate at church. One month, two months passed over thus, and she grew pale and thin. Sir John was cross, Lady Whitney uncomfortable; they were both simple-minded people, caring more for their children's happiness than for their grandeur. The former told the Squire in confidence that if the young fellow could get a decent living, he was not sure but he'd give in, and that he liked him ten thousand times better than he had ever liked that Foliott. They met one day by accident. Helen was out moping in the long broad walk: which was beginning to be shady now, for May was all but in, and the trees were putting on their foliage. At the end of it she came to a standstill, leaning on the gate. The waters of the lake, out yonder, were blue as the unruffled sky. With a faint cry, she started aside, for Charles Leafchild stood before her. Being a parson, and tacitly on honour to Sir John, he might have been expected to pass on his way without stopping; but Helen's hand was already stretched out over the gate. He could but shake it. "You are not looking well," he said after a moment's silence. "I am sorry to see it." What with his unexpected presence, and what with her mind's general discomfort, Helen burst into tears. Mr. Leafchild kept her hand in his. "I have a bad headache to-day," said Helen, by way of excuse for her tears. "It has been gloomy weather lately." "Gloomy within and without," he assented, giving a meaning to her words that she had not meant to imply. "But in every cloud, you know, however dark it may be, there is always a silver lining." "We can't always see it," returned Helen, drying her tears. "No; we very often cannot. But we may trust that it is there--and be patient." "I think it sometimes happens that we never see it--that all is gloomy to the end, the end of life. What then?" "Then we may be sure that it is best for us it should be so. God directs all things."