"I'm sorry for every one," said May. "It is almost enough to kill Mr. Curzon. And I have thought of you too; I was sorry for the loss of your one friend."
"Yes," said Paul. "I've been sorry for myself; I did not believe any child's death could affect me so deeply. Life is an unanswerable riddle from beginning to end."
"Unless the rector is right," said May, softly. "In which case we may find the answer on the other side."
Never had May appeared so beautiful or gracious as that evening when she sat listening to the story of all that had occurred in Rudham since she and her mother had gone to London.
"I'm so glad to be back," she said. "Mother thinks me half-crazed for coming, and threw a dozen obstacles in my way. But I've brought Rose Lancaster with me, and the servants who are left in charge can manage for us; and, as for carriages it will do me good to walk for a little bit."
Paul left the talk almost entirely to the two girls; it was enough for him to sit and watch the play of May's beautiful features, and hear the sound of her voice. What could this sudden return of hers mean, he wondered? Was it a passing whim, or was it?—— He left even the thought unfinished, and called himself a presumptuous fool!
The next morning he received a note from the rector asking him to call.
"There is a matter of extreme importance that I cannot decide until I have seen you, so will you kindly look in this evening?" he wrote.
Paul found him in his study, and noticed that the handsome face was thinner, and the dark lines under the eyes betrayed the suffering through which he had passed.
"I wanted you to come for many reasons," he said, pushing an easy-chair near to the fire. "To thank you, first of all, for the kindness you have poured on my Kitty from the day of your coming until now. There are not many men who would have taken so much trouble about a delicate little girl."