"I have no home. It is behind—with Felix." "And mine is before—with Jesus." Prue spoke low and reverently. She seldom revealed so much of her true self; but Cecilia's need appealed strongly. A flickering smile crossed the other's face. "You! A mere girl!" she said, not realising that Prue was scarcely seven years her junior. "What can you know of life?" "More perhaps than you would suppose . . . I have a dear home here, but the real Home is there." "People talk so, I know; and you seem to mean it. But to me it is only—" "Yes—it is only—" "The unknown. A black depth of nothingness. I do not know why I should say all this. It is not my way. I suppose life goes on there—of course. No unprejudiced or reasonable mind can believe that death means annihilation. There is too much in us for that . . . But the future is so vague. I never expected to be afraid when my time should come . . . Only sometimes—now I am so weak—looking over and seeing no foothold—" Her eyes wandered round the room strangely, even fearfully. "But if, looking over, you saw the outstretched Arms of Christ, our Lord, waiting to receive you? If in the valley, you had His rod and His staff for your comfort—?" A softened look stole into the haggard face. "He is willing. He is waiting. It is we who hold back. It is not He," Prue went on softly. "He is always 'far more ready to hear than we are to ask.' When He has come from heaven to die for us, isn't it the least we can do to believe in His love and pity?" Cecilia shut her eyes resolutely, and Prue said no more. CHAPTER VI. QUARRINGTON COTTAGE. "THEODOSIA, my dear—" "Well?" said Theodosia tartly. She was a pretty woman still, though over thirty-five in age, tall and fair—but the fine eyes which carefully avoided meeting those of her husband were not happy, and her whole air expressed intense ennui. Certainly, the outside world looked cheerless. Snow had fallen heavily throughout the preceding day, and threatening clouds hovered still over a white landscape. Theodosia Bryant hated country at the best of times, and country lanes, immediately after a snowfall, are scarcely at their best. "The post has come in." "The post! And to think of the beloved rat-tat of the London postman, ten times a day!" sighed Theodosia. "However, one may be thankful to be not utterly cut off from the rest of the world, I suppose. I wasn't sure whether we might not have come to that. Anything for me?" She shot an uneasy side-glance at Dr. Bryant. He had a handsome face, calm and firm, framed in abundant grey hair. "Two for you. None from Brighton for me." "Did you expect to hear? I didn't," said Theodosia, reddening slightly. "My dear, what can you know of people whom you have never seen?" "They seem to have put you to trouble without much compunction." "Some mistake, probably. But I shall write at once to Felix."