“Good-morning, Mrs. Milton.” “Good-morning, sir. Glad to see you, sir. Come inside, sir.” “My wife is here, Mrs. Milton?” “Your wife, sir? To be sure, there is a lady here.” Gabriel smiled, but there was no suspicion of bitterness in his eyes. “My wife is with you, Mrs. Milton,” he said. “Lor’, Mr. Strong, I was just now going to say—” “Shall I find her in the garden?” “If you please, sir. And may I say, sir, if it ain’t presumption in an old woman, that I never did believe them lies.” Gabriel colored a little, but smiled in the old woman’s kindly face. “Thank you, Mrs. Milton,” he said. “’Twas this way, sir. Miss Judith, she says to me, sir, ‘My brother, Mrs. Milton—my brother is an English gentleman’; and what Miss Judith says, sir, might, I reckon, satisfy the old gentleman hisself.” Gabriel, sped by a kindly gleam from the old lady’s eyes, passed round the cottage to the garden at the back. Under a fruit tree Joan was seated, gazing up at the sky through the green tracery of the leaves. An open book lay in her lap, a book that wept with those who mourned and rejoiced with those who sang. Gabriel stood there in silence before her, waiting till her eyes should end their communing with heaven. The sunlight, flashing through the boughs, set a golden coronet upon her hair. At last she looked to the earth once more, saw Gabriel standing near the cottage, his hands stretched out to her, a lover’s hands. She gave a low cry, did Joan, and thrusting the book aside, rose up and sped to him. “Gabriel!” “Wife!” The woman’s head was on the man’s shoulder and his arms were close about her body. In that glad meeting came the full consummation of all prayer and hope. Together they stood under the summer sky, while the spirit of June breathed over field and garden. The red rose had kissed the white, and heaven’s dew had touched the heart of many a flower. “God has answered us,” said Joan, at last, lifting up her radiant face. And Gabriel kissed her. “You are happy?” he asked. “Happy! What can mere words declare?” “That by your martyrdom you have made of me a man.” Even at that moment Judith came flashing in, a fair vision of womanhood under the orchard trees. She had not dreamed to find Gabriel so soon returned. For all the bowl of life seemed brimming with joy that morning. Brother and sister stood hand to hand, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. “Gabriel,” said the sister, “there is justice in this old world yet.” “Who works for justice?” “God,” she answered him, very simply. “Has science slain Him? Nay. Can the glib pen, the cunning instrument, tell us yet more than all our hearts have dreamed. The grander deeps are far beyond us still.” Gabriel stood, gazing beyond the hills. “You women are wonderful,” he said. Joan smiled at Judith, Judith at Joan. “Come, sister, read me the riddle.” “Is it not faith,” she said, “that makes love love indeed?”