There can be no separation so utter and hopeless as that which parts two who have been made one. The closer the union, the more complete is the disunion. Even at that moment, when Rhoda's wrath was hot against Robert Clarris, she was struck with Helen's entire lack of wifely feeling. She could almost have pitied the man who had so thoroughly alienated the mother of his child. And then she reflected that this dread of reunion on Helen's part told fearfully against him. Helen was weak, but was she not also gentle and affectionate? Better, indeed, was it for them to keep asunder until another life should present each to the other under a new aspect. She did not pursue the subject further. With a sudden desire to be away from Helen and her troubles, she wrapped herself in a thick shawl, and went up the fields that rose behind the cottage. On the highest land the farmer was mending a fence. She could hear the strokes of his mallet as he drove the stakes into the ground. As Rhoda drew near, she stood still and looked at him--a hale, handsome man, whose face, fringed by an iron-grey beard, was like a rosy russet apple set in grey lichen. His smock-frock showed white against the dark background of brown trees. The air was so quiet that one could listen to his breathing as his strong arms dealt the sturdy blows. She was proud of him as she stood there in the wide field watching him unseen. He would leave her nothing save the legacy of an unstained name, but the worth thereof was far above rubies. No one would sneer at her as the daughter of a disgraced man. No one would whisper, "She comes of a bad stock; take heed how you trust her." Many a rogue has wriggled out of well-earned punishment with the aid of his sire's good name. Many an honest Christian has gone groaning through life under the burden of a parent's evil reputation. With this pride in him Rhoda was unconsciously blending a pride in herself. "Some eyes," she thought, "are too blind to see their blessings; I am quick of sight. The Author and Giver of all good things finds in me a grateful receiver." Thus she loudly echoed the Pharisee's cry "Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other men." And never, perhaps, is the Divine patience so severely tried as when that self-complacent voice is heard. How sweet in Christ's ears must be those other voices--stealing up to Him through the egotist's loveless _Te Deum_--breathing the publican's old prayer, "God be merciful to me a sinner!" It was a day of sober brightness. A white mist had risen above the western slopes, and the setting sun shone through it. Brown furrows had begun to take a rich auburn tinge; tree-shadows crept farther and farther across the green sod; crows flew heavily homewards. From the wet thickets came the old fresh ferny scents, sweetening the calm air. The mallet blows ceased; the farmer had ended his task, and turned towards his daughter.