So the Reverend Richard Jordan, who had cared for this woman, was the man whom friend Barbara thought well of! This was what the money had been wanted for--this was the secret which was "neither sinful nor shameful, but the most holy that a man can have"! When he came in at friend Afton's I went to him. "Who was the deceased?" I asked--most bluntly, I fear me. "She was my wife," he said sadly, and so altogether frankly that I knew he was no guilty man, whatever else he might be. "I grieve with thee," I said. "And before thee goes up to thy solemn office of praying by thy dead wife's side, I would tell thee something. I met thee--look at me!--months ago, when I almost stumbled against thee outside of Benjamin Hicks's garden-gate. Thee was new to the place, thee told me." "I remember you," he said, and flushed painfully. "Nay, do not redden," I said almost with anger. "I know all things about thee, and nothing that is harmful." "Nor ever has been harm," he said firmly. "I know thee has had much money sent to thee, and thee does not know from whom." "I do," he said, "and am ashamed to say I accepted it. It came from your friend Hicks's daughter, but it was for my poor wife--for her alone. I could not help myself--I--" "Thee has no need of shame for that. The Lord must have made it patent to thee that we are placed here to help one another. And so much as friend Hicks's daughter did for thee she did well, and she has my consent; for it was my money that she sent thee." "God bless you, man!" he said, holding his hand to his face, "for I am nothing to you." "And what is Benjamin Hicks's daughter to thee if thee is nothing to me?" He looked at me in wonder: "She is to me a good woman who did her benefits in secret. I never had much conversation with her, for we seldom met; but she was ever kind, and I heard that she would marry soon. I never talked much to any one, for my cares have been great to me, and that sorrow up stairs has been a goodly portion." "Go to thy sorrow," I said, "and let it comfort thee, as sorrow should, that thee did the best thee could." Was I cruel in having spoken to him as I had, and at this time? Then I wrote all--everything of the past months, of to-day, of the deceased woman's suffering, of her death, her husband's arrival, and all that he had said to me. It was a considerably lengthy letter, but what of that? It was for friend Barbara. I sent it at once. Then I must not neglect my duties here, so I stayed the allotted time, receiving occasional word from friend Hicks, but none from his daughter.