He had grown during the past year to so live on the sight and in the blessedness of Mercy that to be shut away from them was simply a sort of dying.

There was no going back for him to the calm routine of the old life before she came.

He was restless and wretched: he walked up and down in front of the house every night, watching the shadow of her figure on the curtains of her mother's room.

He made all manner of excuses, true and false, reasonable and unreasonable, to speak to her for a moment at the door in the morning.

He carried the few verses in his pocket-book she had given him; and, although he knew them nearly by heart, he spent long hours in his office turning the little papers over and over.