He had shown him the way to save Helen.

At first he had shrunk from it, appalled, crying out, "This is death, I cannot, I cannot!" But when, a little later, he went out into the growing glory of the day, and, standing bareheaded, lifted his face to heaven, he said, "I love her enough, thank God,--thank God." A holy and awful joy shone in his eyes.

"God will do it," he said, with simple conviction.

"He will save her, and my love shall be the human instrument." After that had come the days when John had written those imploring letters to his wife, the last of which she had answered with such entire decision, saying that there was no possible hope that she could ever believe in what she called a "monstrous doctrine," and adding sorrowfully that it was hard even to believe in God,--a personal God, and she could be content to let doctrines go, if only that light upon the darkness of the world could be left her.
Then he had sent his last letter.

He had written it upon his knees, his eyes stung with terrible tears; but his hand did not falter; the letter was sent.