But, with the magic of a woman's art, Kate consoled him. He had one great comfort—he had been a loyal friend; such fidelity, such constancy, such affection, forgetting the difference of place, of education—everything.
Philip looked up at last, and there was the lovely face with its beaming eyes. He turned to go, and she said, softly, “How we shall miss you!”
“Why so?” said Philip.
“We can't expect to see you so often now—now that you've not the same reason for coming.”
“I'll be here on Sunday,” said Philip.
“Then you don't intend to desert us yet—not just yet, Philip?”
“Never!” said Philip.
“Well, good-night! Not that way—not by the porch. Good-night!”
As Philip went down the road in the darkness, he heard the words of the hymn that was being sung inside:
“Thy glory why didst Thou enshrine In such a clod of earth as mine, And wrap Thee in my clay.”