“Come,” said Ella, gently, and they went to the path where the mourning coach awaited them. They spoke but little. Miss Lanyon cried softly to herself. Ella leaned back on the cushion with closed eyes. She was very weary, spent with emotion; yet the evil spirit of unrest was laid within her. The past upheaval had been phantasmagoric, in which her integral self had been lost amid a whirling army of unreal shapes. Now, brought into contact with an elemental reality, death, and with a deep and simple grief, it had emerged clear and definite. For the first time for many months the vibrations of her soul rang true, soothing her like sweet, sad music after devil's discord. Sylvester's words by the graveside had moved her. She remembered now a pain that had often come into the old man's eyes, and she wondered reverently. Sylvester sat opposite, his arm around Dorothy, who looked up shyly yet gladly into his face, unable to explain to her childish mind this revulsion of passionate love. To him it was a happiness that flooded his soul. The parched places drank it in like the river of life. He was a new man, able to feel in all its sacredness the sorrow that had come. His temperament had undergone a curious transmutation. Instead of flying, as used to be his wont, to solitude, to brood over his grief, a newly awakened instinct drove him imperiously to companionship. “Come down soon,” he said to the two ladies when, on their arrival at the house, they went upstairs to take off their things. And they all sat together for the rest of the long evening, and while he talked, Ella wondered at his gentleness. At ten o'clock the ladies retired. He accompanied them to the hall and lit their candles. Miss Lanyon bade him good-night and disappeared up the staircase. Ella held out her hand. He kept it in his for a moment. “Won't you stay up with me a little longer?” he asked humbly. The light of the candle played amid the dark gold of her hair and lit up her face, that gleamed very pale in contrast with her high black dress. His eyes, resting upon her, found her stately and sweet. He forgot that only a few days ago he had despised her, classing her with the wanton of an inferior sex. She stood before him something noble, helpful, mysterious. In her calm gaze he read the certainty of a high companionship. He was dismayed by the sudden revelation of his loss. “Willingly,” she said. “But I am so tired.” “Just ten minutes,” he pleaded. “I hate to be alone.” “You?” Surprise was in her tone. “I have been alone so much,” he replied simply.