"To-morrow is our wedding-day, and all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware." She sat with her hands folded before her, and did not immediately answer. If _he_ could not tell what was to be done, or what ought to be done, she would not. Mr. Lake looked at her and waited. "You must do as you think _right_," she said, laying a slight stress upon the word. "I am too unwell to be anywhere but at home on Christmas-day." Mr. Lake left the room, whistling to hide his anger. Had he possessed the worst wife in the world he had never reproached or quarrelled with her. Some men _cannot_ be actively unkind to women, and he was one. He thought her very obstinate, unreasonably so, and said to himself that he would go to Guild. If Clara did not come to her senses beforehand and accompany him, his going without her would bring her to them after. Not another word was said between them; each seemed to avoid the subject. Christmas-day dawned, cloudy but tolerably fine. Mr. Lake was going to Guild. Not doing exactly as he thought _right_, for his conscience was giving him a sharp twinge or two, but following the bias of his inclination, which urged him into the sunshine of my Lady Ellis's smiles. Clara felt worse that morning, dreadfully weak and languid, but she put on her things to attend church. Mr. Lake went with her, and they sat out the service together. At its termination he rose to quit the church; she remained. "Shall you not be too tired with the long service, Clara?" he whispered. "You had better leave it until another opportunity." "Please don't! let me stay." There was something in the pleading words--in the pleading up-turned glance of the wan face, that struck upon him as being strange, leaving a momentarily unpleasant impression. He never stayed the sacrament himself, and went out. She gathered herself into the corner of their high, broad, old-fashioned pew, and knelt down, leaning her arms and head on the seat. An intense weariness was upon her frame and spirit; she did not feel things as keenly as she used--it was as if the world were drifting away from her. Her soul was longing for the comfort of the approaching rite--for its _comfort_. Ah, my friends, we kneel periodically at the altar, and take the bread and wine, and hope that we return comforted and refreshed. Believe me, it is but those from whom the comfort of this world has utterly departed who can indeed realize what that other comfort is, and how great our need of it. Only when earth and its interests fail us, when the silver cord is loosed, the golden bowl broken--in that hour do we desire the rest from travail, as a yearning longing. That hour had come for Clara Lake: she knelt there, feeling that earth had no longer a place for her,--the home above was ready for her,--the Redeemer at hand to welcome her, and take her to God.