“Precious little you know about them!” I retorted. “The devil I don’t!” “No,” said Stoddard, “invoke the angels, not the devil!” “Hear him! Hear him! A priest with no knowledge of the world.” “Alas, my cloth! And you fling it at me after I have gone through battle, murder and sudden death with you gentlemen!” “We thank you, sir, for that last word,” said Larry mockingly. “I am reminded of the late Lord Alfred: “I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires,—’ ” he quoted, looking off through the twilight toward St. Agatha’s. “I can’t see a blooming spire!” The train was now roaring down upon us and we clung to this light mood for our last words. Between men, gratitude is a thing best understood in silence; and these good friends, I knew, felt what I could not say. “Before the year is out we shall all meet again,” cried Stoddard hopefully, seizing the bags. “Ah, if we could only be sure of that!” I replied. And in a moment they were both waving their hands to me from the rear platform, and I strode back homeward over the lake. A mood of depression was upon me; I had lost much that day, and what I had gained—my restoration to the regard of the kindly old man of my own blood, who had appealed for my companionship in terms hard to deny— seemed trifling as I tramped over the ice. Perhaps Pickering, after all, was the real gainer by the day’s event. My grandfather had said nothing to allay my doubts as to Marion Devereux’s strange conduct, and yet his confidence in her was apparently unshaken. I tramped on, and leaving the lake, half-unconsciously struck into the wood beyond the dividing wall, where snow-covered leaves and twigs rattled and broke under my tread. I came out into an open space beyond St. Agatha’s, found the walk and turned toward home. As I neared the main entrance to the school the door opened and a woman came out under the overhanging lamp. She carried a lantern, and turned with a hand outstretched to some one who followed her with careful steps. “Ah, Marian,” cried my grandfather, “it’s ever the task of youth to light the way of age.” CHAPTER XXIX AND SO THE LIGHT LED ME He had been to see Sister Theresa, and Marian was walking with him to the gate. I saw her quite plainly in the light that fell from the lamp overhead. A long cloak covered her, and a fur toque capped her graceful head. My grandfather and his guide were apparently in high spirits. Their laughter smote harshly upon me. It seemed to shut me out,—to lift a barrier against me. The world lay there within the radius of that swaying light, and I hung aloof, hearing her voice and jealous of the very companionship and sympathy between them.