Her avoidance of the Reverend Christopher struck him at first as modest, discreet, and in the best possible taste. But presently it seemed to him that she rather overdid it. There were many things he would have liked to discuss with her, but she always evaded talk with him. Why? he began to ask himself why. And the question wormed through his brain more and more searchingly. He had seen her at work now; he knew her powers, and her graces--the powers and the graces that made her the adored of her Friendly girls and her carving boys. He remembered, with hot ears and neck crimson above his clerical collar, that interview. The things he had said to her! How could he have done it? Blind idiot that he had been! And she had taken it all so sweetly, so nobly, so humbly. She had only needed a word to turn her from the frivolities of the world to better things. It need not have been the sort of word he had used. And at a word she had turned. That it should have been at _his_ word was not perhaps a very subtle flattery--but the Reverend Christopher swallowed it and never tasted it. He was not trained to distinguish the flavours of flatteries. He never tasted it, but it worked in his blood, for all that. And why, why, why would she never speak to him? Could it be that she was afraid that he would speak to her now as he had once spoken? He blushed again. Next time he met her she was coming up to the church with a big basket of flowers for the altar. He took the basket from her and carried it in. "Let me help you," he said. "No," she said in that sweet, simple, grave way of hers. "I can do it very well. Indeed, I would rather." He had to go. The arrangement of the flowers took more than an hour, but when she came out with the empty basket, he was waiting in the porch. Her heart gave a little joyful jump. "I want to speak to you," said he. "I'm rather late," she said, as usual; "couldn't you write?" "No," he said, "I can't write this. Sit down a moment in the porch." She loved the masterfulness of his tone. He stood before her. "I want you to forgive me for speaking to you as I did--once. I'm afraid you're afraid that I shall behave like that again. You needn't be." "Score number one," she said to herself. Aloud she said-- "I am not afraid," and she said it sweetly, seriously. "I was wrong," he went on eagerly. "I was terribly wrong. I see it quite plainly now. You do forgive me--don't you?" "Yes," said she soberly, and sighed. There was a little silence. Her serious eyes watched the way of the wind dimpling the tall, feathery grass that grew above the graves. "Are you unhappy?" he asked; "you never smile now." "I am too busy to smile, I suppose!" she said, and smiled the beautiful, humble, appealing smile he had so longed to see again, though he had not known the longing by its right name. "Can't we be friends?" he ventured. "You--I am afraid you can never trust me again."