Thus in due course he began to climb the little slope of Gunter’s Hill. The sun had set, but there was still a red glow in the sky, and against this glow he perceived the tall figure of Anthony standing quite still. When he was about a hundred yards away the figure suddenly collapsed, as a man does if he is shot. The Reverend Septimus put his hand to his heart and caught his breath. “I know what that means,” he said. “He was watching the window, and they have just pulled down the blind. I suppose he must be fond of her and it—affects him. Oh! if I were younger I think this would kill me, but, thank God! as one draws near the end of the road the feet harden; one does not feel the thorns so much. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, bl—bl—yes, I _will_ say it—blessed be the Name of the Lord.’ I should remember that she is so much better where she is; that this is a very hard world; indeed, sometimes I think it is not a world, but a hell. Oh! Barbara, my sweet Barbara!” and he struggled forward blindly beating at the rough wind with his hands as though it were a visible foe, and so at last came to the crest of the hill where Anthony Arnott lay prone upon his face. So sure was Septimus of the cause of his collapse that he did not even trouble to look at the Rectory windows in the hollow near the church two hundred yards or so away. He only looked at Anthony, saying: “Poor lad, poor lad! I wonder how I shall get him home; I must fetch some help.” As he spoke, Anthony sat up and said, “You see, you see!” “See what?” “The blind; _it is quite up_. When I got here it was half down, then someone pulled it up. That’s what finished me. I felt as though I had been hit on the head with a stick.” The Reverend Septimus stared, then suddenly sank to his knees and returned thanks in his simple fashion. “Don’t let us be too certain, Anthony,” he exclaimed at length. “There may be a mistake, or perhaps this is only a respite which will prolong the suspense. Often such things happen to torment us; I mean that they are God’s way of trying and purifying our poor sinful hearts.” CHAPTER II THE NEW YEAR FEAST Barbara did not die. On the contrary, Barbara got quite well again, but her recovery was so slow that Anthony only saw her once before he was obliged to return to college. This was on New Year’s Day, when Mr. Walrond asked him to dinner to meet Barbara, who was coming down for the first time. Needless to say he went, taking with him a large bunch of violets which he had grown in a frame at the Hall especially for Barbara. Indeed, she had already received many of those violets through the agency of her numerous younger sisters.