IT is held by many philosophers that in order to appreciate happiness one must first experience its direct antithesis, and it may have been Paul Rundel's early misfortunes that gave to his present existence so much untrammeled delight. For one thing, he was again—and with that new soul of his—amid the rural scenes and folk he loved so passionately.

His heart was full of actual joy as he rode down the mountain-side one Saturday afternoon, for the next day would be a day of rest, and he had worked hard all the week. There was a particular book he intended to read, certain fancies of his own which he wanted to note down in manuscript, and hoped to talk over with Ethel.

He was a nature-worshiper, and to-day Nature had fairly wrapped her robe of enchantment about him. The sky had never seemed so blue; space had never held so many hints of the Infinite. Scarcely a flower on the roadside escaped his eye. The gray and brown soil itself had color that appealed to his senses, and the valley stretching away under the bluish veil of distance seemed some vague dream-spot ever receding from his grasp. The day was a perfect one. Since early morning a gentle breeze had been steadily blowing and the air was crisp and bracing.

It was growing dusk when he reached home. He was just entering the front gate when he saw Ethel walking back and forth on the lawn. Something in her hanging head and agitated step told him that her mind was not at ease. At first he thought she might wish to avoid him, but, hearing the clicking of the gate-latch, she turned and advanced across the grass to him. Then he saw that she held a folded letter in her hand and there was a perturbed look on her face.

“Not bad news, I hope?” he ventured.

“I don't know exactly.” Her voice quivered, and she looked at him with a shadow of dumb worry in her eyes. “This letter is from my aunt, Jennie's mother. She proposes that mother and I come down at once. She—she—” Ethel's voice shook with rising emotion. “She doesn't say there is really any new danger. In fact, at the last report the doctors said Jennie was doing as well as could be expected; but somehow—you see, the fact that my aunt wants us to come looks as if—”

“Oh, I hope you won't lose hope,” Paul tried to say, consolingly. “At such a distance, and not being with your cousin, it is natural for you to exaggerate the—”

“No; listen,” Ethel now fairly sobbed. “I've reflected a good deal over our recent talk about thought-transference, and I am sure there is much in it. Jennie and I used to think of the same things at the same time, and I am sure—I really feel that something is going wrong—that she is worse. This letter was written last night and mailed this morning. I was not greatly worried till about three o'clock to-day, but since then I have been more depressed than I ever was in my life. Somehow I can't possibly conquer it. Paul, I'm afraid Jennie is going to die—she may be—be dying now, actually dying, and if she should, if she should—” Ethel dropped her eyes, her breast rose tumultuously, and she looked away from him.

There was nothing Paul could do or say. He simply stood still and mute, a storm of pain and sympathy raging within him.

Ethel seemed to understand and appreciate his silence, for she turned to him and said, more calmly:

“Of course, it may be only my imagination—my overwrought fears. I'm going to try to feel more hopeful. We leave on the eight o'clock train. Mother's packing our things now. It is good of you to be so sympathetic; I knew you would be.”

She turned away. With a halting step she went up the veranda steps and ascended the stairs to her mother's room. Paul was seated on the lawn in the dusk smoking a cigar, when Mrs. Tilton came out to him.

“I saw you talkin' to Ethel just now,” she began. “I reckon she spoke to you about her cousin?”

He nodded and regarded the old wrinkled face steadily as Mrs. Tilton continued, in a tone of resignation:

“Harriet ain't told Ethel the worst of it. A telegram come about an hour by sun, but she didn't let Ethel see it. It said come on the fust train—the doctors has plumb give up. Harriet is afraid Ethel couldn't stand the trip on top of news like that, an' she won't let her know. It's goin' to be awful on the pore child. I'm actually afraid she won't be able to bear it. In all my born days I've never seen such love as them two girls had for each other.”

Paul's heart sank in dismay. “Do you think, Mrs. Tilton,” he said, “that I could be of any service? To-morrow is Sunday, and I am not busy, you know. Could I help by going down with them?”

“No, I don't believe I would,” the old woman answered. “Jim is goin' along. He don't care nothin' about Jennie, but he'll take that excuse to get down there to see his friends. Harriet will bring Ethel back here right after the buryin'. She as good as told me so; she thinks a quiet place like this will be better than down thar among so many sad reminders. I want to tell you now, Paul, an' I don't intend to flatter you neither; but when Jim was talkin' so big on the porch t'other night, an' pokin' fun at the idea of a future life, an' you sat down on 'im so flat, an' said all them purty things so full o' hope to old folks like me, I jest set thar in the dark an' shed tears o' joy. I could 'a' tuck you in my arms an' 'a' hugged you. He is a-hirin' you, an' would naturally like for you to agree with him; but you fired your convictions at him the same as you would 'a' done at anybody else. I'm sick an' tired o' the way he's always talked—classin' humanity with cattle an' hogs like he does. I believe thar's a life after this un; if I didn't I'd go crazy. If I didn't know, actually know, that my poor daughter, who suffered all them years as that man's wife, was happy now, I'd be a fiend incarnate, an' go rantin' over the world like a she-devil let loose. I say I don't want to flatter you, but you've been like a ray o' sunshine in this house ever since you got here. If I had been an' infidel all my life the sight o' your face and the sound o' your voice would turn me flat over.”

Mrs. Tilton was crying. She wiped her eyes on her apron and moved away in the twilight. Paul looked, up at the window of Ethel's room, through which a light was shining. Then he bowed his head, locked his hands in front of him. He remained so for several minutes, then he said, fervently:

“O God, my Lord and Master, my Creator, my All, be merciful. I pray Thee, oh, be merciful—be merciful!”