"I mean together,—not that it should be all on one side. You with me, as well as I with you."
"Oh no, Mr. Rhys!"
"Why not?—Mrs. Rhys?"
"Do not ask me! That would be dreadful!"
"I do not think you will find it so."
Eleanor stopped short, near the other end of the great apartment. "I cannot do it!" she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, but spoke gravely.
"One can always do what is right."
"Not to-day—" whispered Eleanor.
"One can always do right to-day," he answered smiling. "And it is best to begin as we are going on. Come!"
He took her hand and led her forward into the room at the other end of the house; his study, Eleanor saw with half a glance by the books and papers and tables that were there. Still keeping her hand fast in his, they knelt together; and certainly the prayer that followed was good for nervousness, and like the sunshine to dispel all manner of clouds. Eleanor was quieted and subdued; she could not help it; all sorts of memories and associations of Plassy and Wiglands gathered in her mind, back of the thoughts that immediately filled it. Hallowed, precious, soothing and joyful, those minutes of prayer were while Mr. Rhys spoke; in spite of the minutes to follow that Eleanor dreaded. And though her own words were few, and stammering, they were different from what she would have thought possible a quarter of an hour before; and not unhappy to look back upon.