There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you."

In the uttermost corner of his intelligence he felt with sure prescience
that, however befalling, the end of all was not far off. In the exercise
of new faculties, which had more to do with the soul than with reason, he
now believed what he could not see, and recognised what was not proved.
Labour of the hand, trouble, sorrow, and perplexity, charity and
humanity, had cleared and simplified his life, had sweetened his
intelligence, and taken the place of ambition. He saw life now through
the lens of personal duty, which required that the thing nearest to one's
hand should be done first.

But as foreboding pressed upon him there came the thought of what should
come after--to Rosalie. His thoughts took a practical form--her good was
uppermost in his mind. All Rosalie had to live on was her salary as
postmistress, for it was in every one's knowledge that the little else
she had was being sacrificed to her father's illness. Suppose, then,
that through illness or accident she lost her position, what could she
do? He might leave her what he had--but what had he? Enough to keep her
for a year or two--no more. All his earnings had gone to the poor and
the suffering of Chaudiere.

There was one way. It had suggested itself to him so often in Chaudiere,
and had been one of the two reasons for bringing him here. There were
his dead mother's pearls and one thousand dollars in notes behind a
secret panel in the white house on the hill, in this very city where he
was. The pearls were worth over ten thousand dollars--in all, there
would be eleven thousand, enough to secure Rosalie from poverty. What
should Kathleen do with his mother's pearls, even if they were found by