lips. When he looked at her again, the agony had gone from his eyes and his face was composed.
"I cannot do it," he said steadily.
"Then I will take it on my own appraisement," she said, putting her hand frankly into his, the cheery ring back in her voice again. "You see, my faith is not to be shaken."
The cool, firm pressure of her hand thrilled him and seemed to tear down his self-restraint; the quick, spontaneous act of trust brought a mist to his eyes.
"Thank God for such as you!" he whispered.
He turned from her abruptly, and, with his cap, dusted out the wheelbarrow—it was a favourite seat of hers.
She thanked him now and took it, resting her elbows on the handles, cupping her chin in her hands.
Varge, on his knees again, began to take the plants from their pots.
For a long time, silence lay between them. He looked up finally to meet her eyes and read a puzzled something in their depths—and in the fair, sweet face a gentle, tender, troubled look of sympathy.
She started slightly, and the pink dyed the white throat and crept to her cheeks.
"How wonderfully you have done with the garden," she said with a little laugh to cover her embarrassment; "and how quickly, for one who said he knew nothing about it, you have learned in the last week. I came to superintend the transplanting this morning and I find there is no need for supervision, so"—gently—"will you talk to me as you work—about yourself? I think it helps sometimes, doesn't it—to talk? And I should
