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Presently a horse and buggy drove up the lane and stopped almost beneath him. Mauney opened the window to listen, since he knew it was too early for William to be returning.

“Who’s that?” he heard his father’s voice enquire.

“Is this where Mr. Bard lives?” enquired a strange but cultured voice.

“You bet.”

“I’m your pastor, Mr. Bard,” the strange voice continued. “And if you have a few moments, I’ll come in just long enough to get acquainted. It’s a little late, but I didn’t think you’d be in bed yet. I’ll just tie her here, thanks. My name, as I presume you’ve heard, is Tough, but I’m not as tough as I look.”

“How are yu’, Mr. Tough?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“There’s nobody here, but me an’ the hired woman—but—”

“No matter! I’ll take you as I find you. I understand that Mrs. Bard died some years since.”

“Yes. My wife wasn’t never very strong, an’ I never married again.”

“Very sad, indeed. We can’t always tell what’s behind these things, but we try to think they happen for a purpose.”

In Mauney’s breast something tightened at these words. Dim recollections of his mother’s faded face, so thin, but so ineffably sweet, as she closed her eyes in their interminable rest, made him wonder if her going had not been better than staying—staying with the man who had looked, dry-eyed, upon her dead face! Staying to share the unhappiness of her younger son! A wave of joy thrilled him. For one thing he would remain for ever glad—that his mother was dead, safely dead—out of his father’s reach!