“Do come here a moment, Mr. West. Isn’t Amy pretty in her wedding-dress? You really must tell me what to do about something. There is a family”--and she entered upon a puzzling question of relief work, her forehead gathering into a frown, yet with her kind eyes denying the severe common-sense of her statement, that if a man will not work neither shall he eat. “But you see we can’t let the children go hungry,” she ended. The consideration of other people’s weaknesses and wickedness gave William West time to get his breath; he threw himself into the question with keen and intelligent sympathy. He pointed out this; he suggested that; he cleared the puzzle out of Mrs. Paul’s face, and all the time he was half deafened by a clamoring suspicion: “Have I been a fool? She will never forget it! It will always be between us. I’ve been a cowardly fool.” “Well, that’s all settled,” said Mrs. Paul, with an air of relief; “now tell me, what day shall I have Amy’s things sent to the rectory? And shall I take the silver from the bank the day before you arrive? Is it safe to leave it at your house? I hate the responsibility of other people’s silver!” “Oh, certainly, yes,” he answered, suddenly absent; and, with a curt good-by, left her. Somehow or other, he hardly knew how, he got through the day. There was a service in the afternoon, and there were other people’s affairs and sorrows to remember; fortunately, there always is duty for us poor human creatures as a refuge from our thoughts! Duties to be done saved William West from desperately going back to Amy to explain. For he was guilty of the impulse of “explanation,” the babble with which the weak mind is forever annotating its remarks or its opinions. Well, the day passed. In spite of a craving to see Amy that was almost agonizing, he held on to his common-sense, and left her to herself. In the evening, his lawyer came in, bringing some papers in regard to certain property which it was the minister’s intention to make over to his wife, and the looking these over, and the business talk, was a relief to him. He began to feel that he had taken Amy’s perturbation much too seriously; it would be all right; she would see things clearly when the first dismay had passed. He thought, tenderly, that he must not let her feel any regret for having for a moment shown him her pain at what he had told her. Her pain was only part of her exquisite goodness, that goodness which held her, remote and lovely, like some pure and luminous star, so far above the sordid meannesses and wickednesses of common life that she could not understand them; perhaps even she could not pity them. Only the sinlessness which was in all points tempted like as we are can at once understand and pity; his thought, chastened and passionate, fled back to his Master for comfort,--yet there was no reproach of Amy in his mind.