I, left alone, sat down in the porch of that lovely home, thinking of the past events of Hell and Heaven, comparing them and finding them alike in everything but their effects upon myself. From this I fell to thinking of those in whose house I now was sitting. Upstairs lay One whom the world persisted in placing on a throne with an imperial crown: With a feeling of discomfort, which at another time would have amused me by its intensity, I began to wonder if the world would again reject Him if it saw Him lying here, one among many, and having that greatest of all weaknesses, a wife. I determined that this was a secret which should never cross my lips, were I ever free to repeat it, and then I laughed; deception and smuggling up of truth were alike here impossible. From that my mind passed on to this pure spirit woman, whose glorious crown of hair and tender eyes, lit up at times with mirth and overflowing spirits, set my mind wondering as to her past. There was such unaffected good-will in her that skipped at times beyond restraint and left tears in her eyes and laughter on her lips, that one tried to fathom the soul beneath the spirit and was stopped by the pure thin robe of simplicity that covered all. So for long I sat and thought, with no interruption, but amid a golden silence prevailing, and then a soft rustle stirred behind me, and a hand was placed on either shoulder. “You have done just as I wished; I wanted you to stay behind. No, do not rise, I will sit here.” So saying she came forward and sat on the side seat of the porch, with the flowers twining in soft clusters from above. She clasped her knees with her hands. “My husband is up,” she said. “He has some business to attend to, and then will join us.” “Has He been ill long?” “Yes. But He had only been home very shortly. No matter how great the suffering may be, there is no home-coming till the final blow has been struck.” She was silent, till at last, plucking a rosebud from the bower, she added,— “He has suffered defeat, you know.” Now were we both silent; I could find no answer. Yet my mind went back to Him as I had first seen Him in strongest admiration. At last I said, half to myself,— “Yet we on earth esteem defeat despicable and chafe under its hard restrictions.” “Earth is not Heaven,” she murmured softly. “And He has had the pleasure of hearing of Virginius’s victory. It has beguiled the hours of weariness, for I will not attempt to hide from you that in enduring most we suffer most.” “And the victory of another has eased His failure,” I concluded. “Why, yes,” she answered, laughing. “We are all in the same brotherhood in battle. All working to the same end, all striving to attain the same result.” “May I ask your name?” I said at last. She touched her lips with the rose. “My name is Mary,” she answered simply. “There are so many of the name,” I urged, sitting up. “Tell me which you are.”