"And would you pray--would you continue to pray?" she asked, with the timid simplicity of a child groping in the dark. Their eyes met steadily. "I don't know how to advise you as to that," he said, after a pause full of thought. "I must confess that I am not religious. I used to pray, as a child, but I don't now." "Well, I shall keep it up," she said, quietly. "There are moments when it seems to help. I prayed to be allowed to sleep this morning, and I did. You see, I need the strength. If I go to pieces all may be lost, for my father can do nothing." She turned back to the house. The rain had ceased, though the clouds were still thick and lowering. The forge blazed again; the anvil rang as he pounded the yielding steel into shape. He had forgotten himself and his past; the new existence was buoying him up again. Nothing mattered but the woes which had come to Mary Rowland and the necessity of his shouldering them--fighting them. When the bell rang for lunch he went into the house. He found Mary in the dining-room, packing some food into a basket. "It is for the boys," she explained. "I am glad it is clearing up, for I must take it to them." "You?" he cried, in surprise. "Yes," she made answer, simply. "Father and I are the only ones who know where the boys are. Father is in town now to wait for news and to attend to some business with Mr. Frazier at the bank. Father would not want me to go, but some one must." "Might I not go in your place?" he asked, and he actually held his breath while he waited for her reply. "You don't know the way," she said. "It is hard even for me to find." He looked at the heavy basket. "But you can't carry that by yourself. May I not carry it for you?" She glanced at him gratefully. "Would you really care to go?" she inquired. "It is a long walk, and difficult even in dry weather." "Please!" he said. "You ought not to go alone." "Thank you; but first get your dinner. I don't want any. I have only just eaten my breakfast." When they started out, half an hour later, the clouds had lifted somewhat, though they were still full of rain. They went through the barn-yard, climbed over the rail fence, and entered the near-by thicket, which stretched on into the sloping woodland of the mountains. The wet weeds and grass were already dampening her shoes, and, noting it, he paused suddenly. "You really ought not to expose yourself this way," he protested. "Your feet will be soaked in a very short time." "It doesn't matter," she said. "Nothing matters, Mr. Brown, but the fate that hangs over my brothers. I think I could wade in water up to my knees for days at a time and not be conscious of discomfort. It isn't one's body that feels the greatest pain, it is the mind, the soul, the memory. The pain comes from the futility of hoping. Life is a tragedy, isn't it?"