Steps were heard outside the door at the end of a passage. Mary Carton went to the door and called. The steps turned and came nearer. With a great effort Sherman controlled himself. The door opened, and a tall, slight girl of twelve came into the room. A strong smell of garden mould rose from a basket in her hands, Sherman recognized the child who had given him tea that evening in the schoolhouse three years before.
‘Have you finished weeding the carrots?’ said Mary Carton.
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Then you are to weed the small bed under the pear-tree by the tool-house. Do not go yet, child. This is Mr. Sherman. Sit down a little.’
The child sat down on the corner of a chair with a scared look in her eyes. Suddenly she said—
‘Oh, what a lot of burnt paper!’
‘Yes; I have been burning some old letters.’
‘I think,’ said John, ‘I will go now.’ Without a word of farewell he went out, almost groping his way.
He had lost the best of all the things he held dear. Twice he had gone through the fire. The first time worldly ambition left him; the second, love. An hour before the air had been full of singing and peace that was resonant like joy. Now he saw standing before his Eden the angel with the flaming sword. All the hope he had ever gathered about him had taken itself off, and the naked soul shivered.