She dropped her work, folding her hands above it, and her face wore a

reminiscent look as she continued: "When David's wife died, twelve years ago, it was an awful blow to him.

He didn't say much,--that isn't our way,--but we were afraid he would

never be the same again. His brother was out here at that time, but none

of us could do anything for him. He kept on trying to attend to business

just as usual, but he seemed, as you might say, to have lost his grip on

things. It went on that way for nearly two years; his business got

behind and everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers, when he

happened to get acquainted with Mr. Britton, and he seemed to know just

what to say and do. He got David interested in business again. He loaned

him money to start with, and they went into business together and have

been together ever since. They have both been successful, but David has

worked and planned for what he has, while Mr. Britton's money seems to

come to him. He owns property all over the State, and all through the

West for that matter, and sometimes he's in one place and sometimes in

another, but he never stays very long anywhere. David would like to have

him make his home with us, but he told him once that he couldn't think

of it; that he only stayed in a place till the pain got to be more than

he could bear, and then he went somewhere else."

A long silence followed; then, as Mrs. Dean folded her work, she said,

softly,-"It's no wonder he knows just how to help folks who are in trouble, for

I guess he has suffered himself more than anybody knows."

A little later she had gone indoors to superintend the preparations for

lunch, but Darrell still sat in the mellow, autumn sunlight, his eyes

closed, picturing to himself this stranger silently bearing his hidden

burden, changing from place to place, but always keeping the pain.

It still lacked two hours of sunset when John Darrell, leaning on the

arm of John Britton, walked slowly up the mountain-path to a rustic seat

under the pines. They had met at lunch. Mr. Britton had already heard

the strange story of Darrell's illness, and, looking into his eyes with

their troubled questioning, their piteous appeal, knew at once by swift

intuition how hopelessly bewildering and dark life must look to the

young man before him just at the age when it usually is brightest and

most alluring; and Darrell, meeting the steadfast gaze of the clear,

gray eyes, saw there no pity, but something infinitely broader, deeper,

and sweeter, and knew intuitively that they were united by the

fellowship of suffering, that mysterious tie which has not only bound

human hearts together in all ages, but has linked suffering humanity

with suffering Divinity.




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