Arthur Lane and Sandy talked it over. “I wonder what has happened. He looks dreadful.”

The two boys were on their way to Castle Manor. They wanted books. Evans’ library was a treasure-house for youthful readers. It had all the old adventuring tales. And Evans had read everything. He would simply walk up to a shelf, lay his hand on a book, and say, “Here’s one you’ll like.” And he was never wrong.

He had told them that the latch-string was always out for them. And they had learned to look for his welcome. Sometimes he asked them to stay, and ’phoned to their parents. And then they popped corn before the library fire, or made taffy in the kitchen. And sometimes Baldy Barnes was there and that wonderful Miss Towne. And Mrs. Follette. The boys didn’t care in the least what the rest of Sherwood thought about Mrs. Follette. They liked her and when she made the taffy and stood over the boiling kettle with the big spoon in her hand, they thought her regal in spite of the humble nature of her occupation.

But of late, Evans Follette had met them with an effort. “Look for yourselves,” he had said, when they asked for books, and had sat staring into the fire. And he had not urged them to stay. His manner had been kind but inattentive. They were puzzled and a little hurt. “I feel sorta queer when he acts that way,” Sandy was saying, “as if he didn’t take any interest. I don’t even know whether he wants us any more.”

Arthur refused to believe his hero inhospitable. “It’s just that he’s got things on his mind.”

They reached the house and rang the bell. Old Mary let them in. “He’s in the library,” she said, and they went towards it. The door was open and they entered. But the room was empty....

That morning Baldy had had a letter from Jane and had handed it to Evans. It was the first long letter since her engagement to Towne. Baldy had written to his sister, flamingly, demanding to know if she was really happy. And she had said:

“I shall be when Judy is better. That is all I can think of just now. Her life is hanging in the balance. We can never be thankful enough that we got the specialist when we did. He had found the trouble. The question now is whether she will have the strength for another operation. When she gets through with that! Well, then I’ll talk to you, darling. I hardly know how I feel. The days are so whirling. Mr. Towne has been more than generous. If the little I can give him will repay him, then I must give it, dearest. And it won’t be hard. He is so very good to me.”

And now this letter had come after Towne’s second visit:

“Baldy, dear, I am very happy. And I want you to set your mind at rest. I am not marrying Mr. Towne for what he has done for us all, but because I love him. Please believe it. You can’t understand what he has been to me in these dark days. I have learned to know how kind he is—and how strong. I haven’t a care in the world when he is here, and everything is so—marvellous. You should see my ring—a great sapphire, Baldy, in a square of diamonds. He is crazy to buy things for me, but I won’t let him. I will take things for Judy but not for myself. You can see that, of course. I just go everywhere with him in my cheap little frocks, to the theatres and to all the great restaurants, and we have the most delectable things to eat. It is really great fun.

“Judy is so happy over the whole thing, that it is helping her to get well. She says she was half afraid to advise me, but she knew it was for my happiness. Bob simply walks on air. He says when business grows better, he will pay back every cent to Mr. Towne. And of course he must. But we haven’t any of us been made to feel that we ought to be grateful. Mr. Towne says that he simply held out a friendly hand when we needed it, and that’s all there is to it.

“Well, dearest dear, I wish I could hear Philomel sing o’ mornings, and see Merrymaid and the kit-cat on the hearth, but best of all would be to have your own darling self on the other side of the table.”

Since he had heard the news of Jane’s approaching marriage, Evans had lived in a dream. The people about him had seemed shadow-shapes. He had walked and talked with them, remembering nothing afterward but his great weariness. He had eaten his meals at stated times, and had not known what he was eating. He had gone to his office, and behind closed doors had sat at his desk, staring.

Nothing mattered. All incentive was gone. He spoke of Jane to no one. Not even to his mother. He had a morbid horror of hearing her name. When he came across anything that reminded him of her, he suffered actual physical pain.

And now this letter! “You see what she says,” Baldy had raged. “Of course she isn’t in love with him. But she thinks she is. There’s nothing more that I can do.”

Evans had taken the letter to the library to read. He was alone, except for Rusty, who had limped after him and laid at his feet.

She loved—Towne. And that settled it. “I am marrying Mr. Towne because I love him.” Nothing could be plainer than that. Baldy might protest. But the words were there.

As Evans sat gazing into the fire, he saw her as she had so often been in this old room—as a child, sprawled on the hearth-rug over some entrancing book from his shelves, swinging her feet on the edge of a table while he bragged of his athletic prowess; leaning over war-maps, while he pointed out the fields of fighting; curled up in a corner on the couch while he read to her—“Oh, silver shrine, here will I take my rest....”

He could stand his thoughts no longer. Without hat or heavy coat, he stepped through one of the long windows and into the night.

As he walked on in the darkness, he had no knowledge of his destination. He swept on and on, pursued by dreadful thoughts.

On and on through the blackness.... No moon ... a wet wind blowing ... on and on....

He came to a bridge which crossed a culvert. No water flowed under it. But down the road which led through the Glen was another bridge, and beneath it a deep, still pool.

With the thought of that deep and quiet pool came momentary relief from the horrors which had hounded him. It would be easy. A second’s struggle. Then everything over. Peace. No fears. No dread of the future....

It seemed a long time after, that, leaning against the buttress of the bridge, he heard, with increasing clearness, the sound of boys’ voices in the dark.

He drew back among the shadows. It was Sandy and Arthur. Not three feet away from him—passing.

“Well, of course, Mr. Follette is just a man,” Sandy was saying.“Maybe he is,” Arthur spoke earnestly, “but I don’t know. There’s something about him——”

He paused.

“Go on,” Sandy urged.

“Well, something”—Arthur was struggling to express himself, “splendid. It shines like a light——”

Their brisk footsteps left the bridge, and were dulled by the dirt road beyond. Sandy’s response was inaudible. A last murmur, and then silence.

Evans was swept by a wave of emotion; his heart, warm and alive, began to beat in the place where there had been frozen emptiness.

“Something splendid—that shines like a light!”

Years afterward he spoke of this moment to Jane. “I can’t describe it. It was a miracle—their coming. As much of a miracle as that light which shone on Paul as he rode to Damascus. The change within me was absolute. I was born again. All the old fears slipped from me like a garment. I was saved, Jane, by those boys’ voices in the dark.”

The next day was Sunday. Evans called up Sandy and Arthur and invited them to supper. “Old Mary said you were here last night, and didn’t find me. I’ve a book or two for you. Can you come and get them? And stay to supper. Miss Towne will be here and her uncle.”

The boys could not know that they were asked as a shield and buckler in the battle which Evans was fighting. It seemed to him that he could not meet Frederick Towne. Yet it had been, of course, the logical thing to ask him. Edith had invited herself, and Towne had, of course, much to tell about Jane.

Evans, therefore, with an outward effect of tranquillity, played the host. After supper, however, he took the boys with him to the library.

On the table lay a gray volume. He opened it and showed the Cruikshank illustrations.

“I’ve been reading this. It’s great stuff.”

“Oh, Pilgrim’s Progress,” said Sandy; “do you like it?”

“Yes.” Evans leaned above the book where it lay open under the light. “Listen:

“‘Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall: and with that, Christian’s sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, I am sure of thee now: and with that, he had almost prest him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life. But as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good Man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for his Sword, and caught it, saying, Rejoice not against me, O mine Enemy! when I fall, I shall arise: and with that, gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound: Christian perceiving that, made at him again saying, Nay, in all these things we are more than Conquerors, through him that loved us. And with that, Apollyon spread forth his Dragon’s wings, and sped him away, that Christian saw him no more.’”

Evans’ ringing voice gave full value to the words. It seemed to Arthur, worshipping his hero, as if he flung a hurled defiance at some unseen foe—“Rejoice not against me, O mine Enemy! when I fall, I shall arise!”

Yet when he looked up from the book Evans’ eyes were smiling.

“Would you like to take it home with you? It is a rare edition, but you know how to handle it. And I’d like to have you read it. Some day you may meet Apollyon. And may find it helpful. As I have.”

Later as the boys walked home together, the precious volume under Arthur’s arm, Sandy said, “He’s more like himself, isn’t he? More pep.”

“I’ll say he is,” but Arthur was not satisfied. “I wish he’d told us what he meant when he talked about meeting Apollyon.”

That night Evans found out for the first time something about his mother. “You look tired, dearest,” he had said, when their guests were gone, and he and she had come into the great hall together.“I am tired.” She sat down on an old horsehair sofa. “I can’t stand much excitement. It makes me feel like an old lady.”

“You’ll never grow old.” He felt a deep tenderness for her in this moment of confessed weakness. She had always been so strong. Had refused to lean. She had, in fact, taken from him his son’s prerogative of protectiveness.

He laid his hand on her shoulder. “You’d better see Hallam.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“What did he say?”

“My heart——”

He looked at her in alarm. “Mother! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was the use? There’s nothing to be worried about. Only he says I must not push myself.”

“I am worried. Let me look after the men in the morning early. That will give you an extra nap.”

“Oh, I won’t do it, Evans. You have your work.”

“It won’t hurt me. And I am going to boss you around a bit.” He stooped and kissed her. “You are too precious to lose, Mumsie.”

She clung to him. “What would I do without you, my dear?”

He helped her up the stairs. And as she climbed slowly, his arm about her, he thought of that dark moment by the bridge.If those young voices had not come to him in the night, this loving soul might have been stricken and made desolate; left alone in her time of greatest need.