shallows that led to the depths of her nature.

Lyddy went home at seven o'clock that night rather reluctantly. The
doctor had said Mr. Croft could sit up with the boy unless he grew
much worse, and there was no propriety in her staying longer unless
there was danger.

"You have been very good to me," Anthony said gravely, as he shook
her hand at parting--"very good."

They stood together on the doorstep. A distant bell called to
evening prayer-meeting; the restless murmur of the river and the
whisper of the wind in the pines broke the twilight stillness. The
long, quiet day together, part of it spent by the sick child's
bedside, had brought the two strangers curiously near to each other.

"The house hasn't seemed so sweet and fresh since my mother died," he
went on, as he dropped her hand, "and I haven't had so many flowers
and green things in it since I lost my eyesight."

"Was it long ago?"

"Ten years. Is that long?"

"Long to bear a burden."

"I hope you know little of burden-bearing?"

"I know little else."