"I am not the only man who has had to suffer," thought Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. "At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace's sympathy in this." And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis's eyes. "She was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me," thought the young man. He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted. Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of God's mercy,--comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves; feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to humanity, "until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had been laid upon them." CHAPTER XXXIII. "THIS IS LIFE AND DEATH TO ME." Phillis found it difficult during the next few days to reconcile divided sympathies; a nice adjustment of conflicting feelings seemed almost impossible. Nan was so simply, so transparently happy, that no sister worthy of the name could refuse to rejoice with her: a creature so brimming over with gladness, with contented love, was certain to reflect heart-sunshine. On the other hand, there was Mr. Drummond! To be glad and sorry in a breath was as provoking to a feeling woman as the traveller's blowing hot and cold was to the satyr in the fable. In trying to preserve an even balance Phillis became decidedly cross. She was one who liked a clear temperature,--neither torrid nor frigid. Too much susceptibility gave her an east-windy feeling; to be always at the fever-point of sympathy with one's fellow-creatures would not have suited her at all. Nan, who possessed more sweetness of temper than keenness of psychological insight, could not understand what had come to Phillis. She was absent, a trifle sad, and yet full of retort. At times she seemed to brim over with a wordy wisdom that made no sort of impression. One evening, as they were retiring to bed, Nan beckoned her into her little room, and shut the door. Then she placed a seat invitingly by the open window, which was pleasantly framed by jasmine; and then she took hold of Phillis's shoulders in a persuasive manner. "Now, dear," she said, coaxingly, "you shall just tell me all about it." Phillis looked up, a little startled. Then, as she met Nan's gentle, penetrative glance, she presented a sudden blank of non-comprehension, most telling on such occasions, and yawned slightly. "What do you mean, Nannie?" in a somewhat bored tone.