At the close of the meeting he made his way to the door to shake hands with the departing hearers, and Hubert gave him his with a cordial grasp, and with thanks for his "excellent sermon." The minister's face brightened and he looked after his appreciative visitors with hope that they might come again. CHAPTER IX "TWO OF ME" Affairs moved quietly in the Gray household as the week advanced. Mr. Frothingham called one evening and made himself very entertaining to the two ladies. Mrs. Gray laughed gently at his jokes, for he was a tireless jester (sometimes a tiresome one), and he enjoyed seeing the serious light in Winifred's eyes change to mirth under his curious speeches. The two sang together, and after that she played dreamy snatches from Beethoven while he leaned back in an easy chair and listened. What a harmonious and pleasant life stretched before the two together! Mrs. Gray lived over again through her daughter's heart days when Robert Gray and she were learning that life was sweetest when they were together, and she sighed in a pensive mingling of emotions as she mentally gave Winifred up to the reign of the ancient conqueror. She fell asleep over the fleecy shawl she was knitting as her daughter played, and was not aroused when Mr. Frothingham rose to go. Winifred and he exchanged smiling glances as they saw her closed eyes, and spoke in low tones together. Mr. Frothingham lingered just a perceptible moment over Winifred's hand in parting, and looked down into her face with an unspoken question she had never read before so clearly. Her eyes fell, and the flush in her fair face deepened into lovelier red. "Good night," each said softly, and he went away. Winifred drank in the luxury of her own sweet thoughts until his step ceased to sound, and then went over to her mother's chair. She stooped and kissed her forehead. Mrs. Gray opened her eyes. "Dear me! I lost myself for a moment," she said. Then, "Is George gone?" she added. "Yes, mother." Mrs. Gray looked at the clock. "And it's time," she said with parental duty. "You must go to bed at once, dear." Winifred had had a happy evening, and the reflection that looked back at her from the glass in her dressing-room was radiant. But, after all, in the depths of her heart there was a tinge of something sad, an unsatisfied sense of some good thing wanting. What was it that the evening lacked? A little book upon the table suggested the answer with a mute reproach. In all the evening's pleasure there had been no sweet savor of Jesus Christ. Now as she took the book and tried to read her heart beat coldly toward Him. The words did not speak to her, but seemed like misty voices far away, spoken for other ears. The tide of another love had come sweeping in, strong and insistent. George Frothingham's face smiled before her, and instead of the words she was reading she heard his voice as they sang together: