"I will try," I promised, rather uncertainly. "And begin at once." "Yes. I have given you the promise and usually keep my word." "Then good-bye until next week." The lamps were lighted when I passed along the oak walk that was my nearest approach home to Oaklands, and the fact that I had broken my promise to Mr. Winthrop never again to remain out alone after night filled me with alarm and self-reproach. I succeeded in gaining the house unperceived and was in abundant time for dinner, which I feared might have been served. CHAPTER XXII. THE CHANGED HEART. When I entered the softly illumined dining-room, I was surprised to find Mr. Winthrop standing near the fire, and gazing into it with a preoccupied expression. Mrs. Flaxman was sitting in her favorite corner, a book lying open on her knee, her eyes fixed on Mr. Winthrop somewhat anxiously. Instinctively I felt something unusual had disturbed their serenity--the sympathetic influences about me in the air which most of us know something about, acquainted me with the fact. I was almost beside Mr. Winthrop when he began to say, "Medoline must not know"--the sentence was left unfinished, for Mrs. Flaxman seeing me said, abruptly, "Why, Mr. Winthrop, here is our runaway." He turned towards me, a startled look in his eyes. "Have you been out?" he asked, with some surprise at her remark. "Yes," I looked at him with a pathetic interest never felt before. "Visiting your Mill Road pensioners?" he said, with a peculiar gesture, as if trying to rid himself of some unpleasant reflection. "Not to-day, I do not go there every time I am out." "No, indeed, Medoline does not confine her kindness to those poor folk alone," Mrs. Flaxman interposed. "You do not seek for the sorrowful elsewhere, I hope?" "The heavy-hearted are not confined to that locality alone, Mr. Winthrop." "You include those also in your ministries of mercy," he said, with that rare smile which strongly reminded me of a bright gleam of sunshine falling on a hidden pool. "I am not so vain as to think I can reach their case. After I have experienced the ministry of sorrow, I may touch sad hearts and comfort them." "You are not anxious to suffer in order to do this. Remember, misery sometimes hardens." "If we take our miseries to God, He can turn them into blessed evangels," I replied softly. "Where did you learn that secret, Medoline?" "It was Mr. Bowen who taught me. God left him in the darkness, and then gave him songs in the night--such grand harmonies, his life became like a thanksgiving Psalm." "I hope you are not going to indulge in cant, Medoline. It does very well for poor beggars like them; but for the enlightened and refined it is quite out of place."