“To-morrow. That ain't no place for 'em down thar in all that whiz, hustle, an' chatter, with a nigger fetchin' in a card or a bunch o' flowers every minute. The fellers that run the flower-stores certainly are in clover.” Mrs. Mayfield and Ethel came in on the nighttrain which reached Grayson at ten o'clock, and, having retired, Paul saw neither of them till the next day. He had risen for his early morning walk, and gone down to the front lawn, where he was surprised to see Mrs. Mayfield nervously walking back and forth, her troubled glance on the ground. He had never seen her look so grave, so despondent. Her hair was drawn more tightly across her brow, and there was no trace of color in her pinched and troubled face. Seeing him, she bowed and made a pathetic little gesture of welcome. He hesitated for a moment as to whether he might intrude upon her, but some appealing quality of friendliness in her sad glance reassured him, and, hat in hand, he crossed the grass to her. “I was very sorry to hear your bad news,” he said. “I was sorry, too, that there seemed nothing I could do to help.” “Thank you; you are very kind,” the lady said, her thin lips quivering sensitively. “I have thought of you, Paul, several times since the blow came. After our recent talks I am sure you could have given us more consolation than almost any one else. At a time like this there is absolutely nothing to lean on except the goodness and wisdom of God.” “Yes, of course,” he responded, simply. “I am not worrying about Jennie now,” Mrs. Mayfield went on, gravely, sweeping his face with almost yearning eyes. “At my age one becomes accustomed to face death calmly, but, Paul, I am actually alarmed about the effect on Ethel.” “I know, and I am sorry,” Paul said; “very, very sorry.”