Like one who is lost in idle musing, one who concerns himself with trifling thoughts lest he realize too poignantly a bitter actuality, Philip sat in his place, now and then glancing about the great church. Changing his position a little, he saw the face of Mrs. Fenton. He dwelt on it with mingled grief and pain. More and more he became absorbed in gazing, while love and anguish swelled in his heart. He forgot where he was; he saw her only; he felt only her presence in all the throng. His passion seemed to him greater than ever. He did not for an instant think of her as of one who could or would requite his affection; or even as one who belonged to his future life. He was filled with a sense of the completeness of his devotion to her; he felt that he had loved her more than Heaven itself; but he felt also that he was bidding her good-by. He had not definitely said to himself that a change was before him; yet looking at her he felt it. The shadow of an eternal farewell seemed to be over him. He was benumbed with suffering; he drank in her face greedily; he seemed to himself to be imprinting for the last time upon his memory that which was dearer to him than life, yet which he was to see no more. The service ended at last, and once more the long procession of which he was a part slowly made its way out of the church. Philip found himself in the vestry in the midst of a crowd of ecclesiastics from which he extricated himself with all possible speed; and got once more into the open air. He threaded his way among the groups standing on the sidewalks chatting and hindering him. Suddenly a man turned close to him, and Maurice stood before his face. "Phil!" he heard the joyful voice of his friend cry. "My dear old Phil, how glad I am to see you!" The sound was like a charm which breaks a spell. For the instant all else was forgotten in the pleasure of being again with his heart-fellow. He could have flung his arms about the other's neck and kissed him, so keen was his delight. The doubts and distractions which a moment earlier had bewildered and tortured him vanished before Wynne's greeting as a mist before a brisk and wholesome wind. He seized the hand held out to him, and clasped it almost convulsively. "Maurice!" was all that he could say. "I really ought not to recognize you," Maurice said, in a great hearty voice which sounded to Philip strangely unfamiliar. "Why in the world have you refused to see me? I assure you I'm not contagious." They were close to a group waiting on the sidewalk, and with instinctive shrinking Ashe led the way down the street. Soon they were walking in much the old fashion, and Philip left his friend's question unanswered until they had gone some distance. Then he turned with a smile not a little wistful. "Certainly it was not because I did not long to see you," he said. Maurice smiled, but Philip sensitively felt a veiled impatience in his tone as he replied:--