Annie felt that her best solace would be in trying to cheer others. She had seen Gregory but seldom and briefly since the interview last described, but had been greatly comforted by his decided change for the better. He had kept his word. Indeed, it was only the leaden hand of despondency that kept him down, and he rallied from the moment it was lifted. This evening he was dressed and sitting by the fire. As she entered, in her deep mourning, his look was so wistful and kind, so eloquent with sympathy, that instead of cheering him, as she had intended, she sat down on a low ottoman, and burying her face in her hands, cried as if her heart would break. "Oh that I knew how to comfort you!" said Gregory, in the deepest distress. "I cannot bear to see you suffer." He rose with difficulty and came to her side, saying, "What can I do, Miss Walton? Would that I could prevent you, at any cost to myself, from ever shedding another tear!" His sympathy was so true and strong that it was a luxury for her to receive it; and she had kept up so long that tears were nature's own relief. At last he said timidly, hesitatingly, as if venturing on forbidden ground, "I think the Bible says that in heaven all tears will be wiped away. Your father is surely there." "Would that I were there with him!" she sobbed. "Not yet, Annie, not yet," he said, gently. "Think how dark this world would be to more than one if you were not in it." "But will you never seek this dear home of rest?" she asked. "The way of life is closed to me," he said, sadly. "O, Mr. Gregory! Who is it that says, 'I am the way?'" "But He says to me, 'Depart.'" "And yet I, knowing all--I, a weak, sinful creature like yourself--say, Come to Him. I am better and kinder than He who died for us all! What strange, sad logic! Good-night, Walter. You will not always so wrong your best Friend." Gregory's despairing conviction that his day of mercy was past was hardly proof against her words and manner, but he was in thick darkness and saw no way out. Annie went down to her aunt and Hunting in the parlor. "Why will Mr. Gregory be so hard and unbelieving?" she said, tearfully. "If you knew him as well as I do you would understand," said Hunting, politicly, and then changed the conversation. He was consumed by a jealousy which he dared not show. Annie's manner toward him was all that he could ask, and he felt sure of her now. But it was the future he dreaded, for he was satisfied that Gregory had formed an attachment for Annie, whether she knew it or not, and, unless he could secure her by marriage, the man he had wronged might find means of tearing off his mask. With desperate earnestness he resolved to press his suit. His course since Mr. Walton's death had been such as to win Annie's sincerest gratitude. When action rather than moral support was required, he was strong, and no one could be more delicately thoughtful of her feelings and kinder than he had been.