If I am anything to you, Joseph, now is the time when my presence should be some slight comfort. We need not speak, but we will keep together."
Joseph clung the closer to. his friend's arm, without speaking, and they passed out of the house. Philip led him, mechanically, towards the garden, but as they drew near the avenue of box-trees Joseph started back, crying out:—
"Not there!—O, not there!"
Philip turned in silence, conducted him past the barn into the grass-field, and mounted the hill towards the pin-oak on its summit. From this point the house was scarcely visible behind the fir-trees and the huge weeping-willow, but the fair hills around seemed happy under the tender sky, and the melting, vapory distance, seen through the southern opening of the valley, hinted of still happier landscapes beyond. As Joseph contemplated the scene, the long strain upon his nerves relaxed: he leaned upon Philip's shoulder, as they sat side by side, and wept passionately.
"If she had not died!" he murmured, at last.
Philip was hardly prepared for this exclamation, and he did not immediately answer.
"Perhaps it is better for me to talk," Joseph continued. "You do not know the whole truth, Philip. You have heard of her madness, but not of my guilt. What was it I said when we last met? I cannot recall it now; but I know that I feared to call my punishment unjust. Since then I have deserved it all, and more. If I am a child, why should I dare to. handle fire? If I do not understand life, why should I dare to set death in motion?"
He began, and related everything that had passed since they parted on the banks of the stream. He repeated the
