"And my husband?" she added.
"Andrew's never seen Mr. Martin," put in Mary Goldsmith; "he's never crossed the church door since Sophy ran away; and he never sits in the shop now, where folks can see him at his work. He spends his time mostly seeking after her, anywhere that he can find a clew; and he sits up half his nights with the sick and dying."
"Because my nights are sleepless, or full of terror," he interrupted, "and my heart is sorer by night than by day. And poor folks that cannot pay for nurses are glad to have me near at hand; and the dying know I'm not afraid of death, but seek it as one seeks after hidden treasure, so they hold my hand in theirs till they step into the outer darkness, knowing I would gladly take that step for them. I tell them it is better to die than to live; and they half believe me. They take messages for me into the next world!"
"Messages!" repeated Margaret.
"Ay," he continued, "to tell Sophy, if she's there, to send me some sign; but no sign comes. So she must be living still; and I shall know what has become of her, and where she is, some day."
Margaret did not feel it possible to combat this notion of Andrew's, though she looked anxiously from him to his sisters. George Martin had recently settled in at the Rectory, and begun his pastoral care of his country parish; and she wondered if he could not in any way turn the deep current of this man's grief, which was threatening him, she feared, with insanity.
"Has our cousin, the new rector, been to see you yet?" she inquired of Mary.
"Yes," she answered; "and Andrew's promised to go to church again next Sunday."
"I shall be there," said Margaret gladly, "and I shall look to see you in your pew, Andrew. I shall miss you if you are not there."
"I will be there, Miss Margaret," he answered.