I told him Yes; and the fancy, if it can so be called, seemed to help and comfort him. "Yes," he said musingly, "it's wonderful, isn't it, how we could have been happy then at all—when we didn't have them. But God gave them to us, didn't He, Helen?"
"Yes," I murmured, my face hidden; "yes, God gave them."
"And they're still His to give," he went on, a great peace in his voice such as it thrilled my soul to feel; "they're still His to give. And I know—I'm almost sure—that He'll give us Harold back again. Something tells me that it's coming near; I knew it when I looked out on the water—when the dark fled before the light that flooded it. Don't you think so, my darling?"
I forget just what my answer was; but we sat long, soothing and comforting each other, drinking deep from Memory's spring. By and by Gordon fell asleep with his head resting on my arm, the moonlight still playing on the pure and lovely features as we sat by the open window. I brooded above him, thanking God for the change I could see upon the care-worn face. The tide had turned, the reaction had come at last, the strife of battle seemed spent and gone. All night long he slept the sleep of a little child; the morning found him bright and tranquil, and his first waking word was to say that he was well.
For a couple of weeks, or perhaps a little longer we lingered on in our quiet retreat, every hour blissful with its evidence of returning strength. Gordon spoke often of Harold, but always now with a sweet trustfulness that was beautiful to see; I really believe God made him well by touching his spirit with the calm of a childlike faith. It was a miracle, I have never ceased to think, let the critics say what they will. And as his strength came back his heart began to turn wistfully towards his work; I really don't believe any one ever knew how much he loved St. Andrew's, and had loved it all through the years.
I protested against his returning, but in vain. So it was all arranged that we were to start home on the following Monday. The evening before, Gordon preached for a clergyman whose acquaintance he had formed, the minister of a little Methodist church not far away. I was there, of course; and the sermon was one of the noblest I ever heard Gordon give. It was from the words: "Casting all your care upon Him," and I know every listener felt that the message was heaven-born.
After the service was finished I was going down the aisle alone, when suddenly I heard some one pronounce my name.
"Miss Helen!" said the voice, and bygone years rolled back upon me at the tone.
I swung around, wildly excited. It was a voice from home. "Mr. Slocum!" I cried, so loud that everybody stood still and looked at me; "Frank Slocum!—Oh, Frank!" and I stood gasping in the aisle. It was one of the friends of my early girlhood—the same who had been my escort to the ball that far departed night when we had first discussed the Presbytery, and the attic guest it was to bring us.
"I wa'n't right sure," he began, rosy as the dawn; "but some one told me the preacher was Mr. Laird—then I knew you were Mrs. Laird."