“No,” said Graeme, humbly. “I am going in.” But she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand.
“Miss Graeme,” said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, “hadn’t you better give up now, and let the Lord do as He’s a mind to about it?”
“Yes,” said Graeme, “I give up. His will be done.”
“Amen!” said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that in “the golden vials full of odours” before the throne, Deacon Snow’s prayer for her found a place.
She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into Hannah’s bright kitchen.
“Will you go in and see papa, or in there?” asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke.
“Well, I guess I’ll sit down here. It won’t be long before Mis’ Snow’ll be going along down. But don’t you wait. Go right in to your father.”
Graeme opened the study-door and went in.
“I will tell him to-night,” said she. “God help us.”
Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand.