"My devotions are here, at my side," he said in a low voice. "And my pessimism is caused by the true glass of my nature being held honestly before my eyes. It started cutting up this way today after you left us, and ever since I've not been able to spare myself. I don't know how to make you understand it--perhaps you don't want to understand it--but the two sides of this lane seem so peculiarly expressive of my life that I see no peace in them at all." "The lane might not be so attractive without a medley of rioting things," she answered dreamily. "Yet, it could be improved by cutting out the poison-ivy!" "If that were cut out of the lane I mean, there would be little left. It seems to have taken possession of--of my lane!" "Are there not gardeners," she smiled a wee bit tenderly up at him, "who know how it could be done?" "But I have no gardener." The wistfulness in his voice checked her smile. They were at the chapel now, and he drove beneath the grove of trees, helped her down, and then unchecked and tied the horse near a few others already there. She waited. Slowly they went up to the silent door, but on its threshold he touched her arm. "May I find a gardener?" He was looking down with a strong appeal in his eyes. "For your sake, do," she hurriedly whispered, and went in. They were early, and the chapel seemed to be dozing in a cool gloom which was softly set in motion as she glided, like a graceful shadow, up the aisle. He followed with more sturdy strides. So very quiet and vault-like was the place, that each worshipper there before them could be heard turning to see who came; and when he finally stretched back in the pew of her selection, the creaking of its heavy walnut joints let loose the echoes of a hundred years. She had knelt, but he sat back watching her. The slowly westering sun, piercing the outside branches and filtering a gleam of rose through one of the gothic windows, touched her raised face that was in no need of color. And while she gazed upon the crucifix, he looked tenderly upon her who was typifying the most lovely purity he had to that time known. A man entered, carrying a babe, and demurely followed by his wife. They sat in the pew across; the woman coughed, and again the nave, the ceiling and the altar were filled with hollow echoes. But other worshippers now came, and their arrival seemed fully to arouse the little chapel for its service, dispelling its ghostly sounds for the rustlings of life. In the midst of this Brent picked up a book of prayer, and on its first page wrote: "And not for your sake?"--then passed it to her with the pencil. She read it, closed the place on the tip of her gloved finger, and slowly raised her eyes full again upon the crucifix. The pencil slipped from her lap and rolled beneath the pew, but when he moved to recover it she shook her head;--and whatever the answer might have been remained a secret between herself and the torn Christ.