As every detail of the past three months came before her, she realized how innocent of any deception Waldsen had been, and the very advice he was now seeking proved his confidence in her. The secret was her own,—at least she had that comfort. Then a wave of pain passed over her, almost stopping her breath and seizing her throat in an iron grasp. She dimly saw that Gurth was showing her some letters, and gathered herself together only to receive a fresh blow,—his appeal for Andrea. For though he did not ask it in so many words, she knew what was in his mind. When he had finished and stood expectantly before her, she could no longer contend with herself, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she said, “I must think before I answer you, but I will do all I can.” As she passed him he saw the tears, and, taking her hand, he stooped and kissed it reverently, saying, “God bless you for your sympathy.” The Deacon did not return for tea, having business in town, and Waldsen, much surprised at Margaret’s absence, ate his meal alone. Margaret herself sat in her east window looking at the twilight, and, when it faded, at the stars. The marsh frogs piped monotonously, and the water rushed over the dam, falling below with a hollow thud. Soon Waldsen’s violin sounded from his open window,—to-night he played “The Songs without Words,” one after another, chancing to end with “Lost Happiness.” As Margaret listened, now that the first shock was over, she was soothed. At first she did not think it was possible that she could have Andrea in the house, and then she knew that only by some such object lesson would she realize that Waldsen could not belong to her. Andrea should come, and they would work together. Zella was shiftless and constantly threatening to go. To tell her father and make him comprehend the change was her next task. Puritan in education and temperament, no other thought but to bend to the seemingly inevitable occurred to her. On Easter Day no one who heard Margaret sing at church knew of her struggle, and yet her voice moved those plain people as it never had before, and they spoke of it among themselves in walking home. “The Dane must have taught her,” they said, “for they do say he can write music.” When Margaret told the Deacon that portion of Waldsen’s story relating to Andrea, he did not betray the surprise he felt. He was, however, completely bewildered by this development, though he had long since ceased judging his daughter by ordinary standards. He was both disappointed and glad; he would have raised no objections to Margaret’s marriage with the young Dane, yet when he knew the exact facts regarding Gurth and Andrea, he was surprised at the sudden feeling of relief that came over him, for while he liked Gurth as a companion, he had grave doubts as to his permanent contentment in the life that he had now chosen.