sat against the wall motionless; and when finally, like the very climax of the silence, another faint, uncontrollable sob came from Lily, the sensation in the room was as of something almost too much for flesh and blood. Mr. Blythe shut the book with a sound in his throat almost like a sob. He waved his hand toward the younger man at the table. “You will give the prayer,” he said in what sounded a peremptory tone, and leaned back in the chair, from which he was incapable of moving, covering his face with his hands. It was hard upon the poor, young, inexperienced assistant and successor to be called upon to “give” that prayer. It was not that he was untouched by the general emotion, but to ask him to follow the departure of that prodigal whose feet they had all heard grind the gravel, the garden gate swinging behind the vehemence of his going--the prodigal who yet had been all but pointed out as the object of the father’s special love, and for whom Helen Blythe’s life had been, and would yet be, one long embodied prayer--was almost more than Helen Blythe’s lover, waiting, if perhaps the absence of the other might turn her heart to him, could endure. None of them, fortunately, was calm enough to be conscious how he acquitted himself of this duty, except, perhaps, Mr. Blythe himself, who was not disinclined to contemplate the son-in-law whom he would have preferred as “cauld parritch,” Duff’s contemptuous description of him. “No heart in that,” the old minister said to himself as he uncovered his face and the others rose from their knees. The mediocrity of the prayer, with its tremulous petitions, to which the speaker’s perplexed and troubled soul gave little fervor, restored Mr. Blythe to the composure of ordinary life. Helen said little on that occasion or any other. “He will be far away before the end of the week,” she said next morning. “It’s best so, Lily. Why should he bide here, tearing the heart out of my breast, and his own, too? if it was not for that wonderful Scripture last night! He’s away, and I’m content. And all the rest is just in the Lord’s hands.” The minister, too, had his own comment to make. “She’ll be building a great deal on that chapter,” he said to Lily, “as if there was some kind of a spell in it. Do not you encourage her in that. It was a strange coincidence, I am not denying it; but it’s just the kind of thing that happens when the spirits are high strung. I was not unmoved myself. But that lad’s milk and water,” he added, with a gruff laugh, “he let us easy down.” The poor “lad,” time-honored description of a not fully fledged minister, whose prayer was milk and water, and his person “cauld parritch” to the two rougher and stronger men, accompanied Lily part of the way on foot as she rode home, Rory having come to fetch her, while the black powny carried her baggage. He was very desirous to unbosom his soul to Lily, too.