August First | Page 2

on his
forehead, a glorious, chilled current rushing about him.
"Thank Heaven!" he brought out involuntarily, and the girl, standing,
facing him, looked surprised and, hesitating, stared at him. By that his
dignity was on top.
"You wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. The girl flushed.
"No," she said, and stopped. He waited. "I didn't expect--" she began,
and then he saw that she was very nervous. "I didn't expect--you."
He understood now. "You expected to find the rector. I'm sorry. He
went off to-day for his vacation. I'm left in his place. Can I help you in
any way?"
The girl stood uncertain, nervous, and said nothing. And looked at him,
frightened, not knowing what to do. Then: "I wanted to see him--and
now--it's you!" she stammered, and the man felt contrite that it was
indubitably just himself. Contrite, then amused. But his look was
steadily serious.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "If I would possibly do, I should be glad."
The girl burst into tears. That was bad. She dropped into a chair and
sobbed uncontrollably, and he stood before her, and waited, and was
uncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat
with roses was still plunged into the two bare hands--it was too hot for
gloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; the
room was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man in
his black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chair
and the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again.
"Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in the
detached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything for
you unless you tell me."

The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowers
stopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I--know. I
beg--your pardon. It was--such a shock to see--you." And then, most
unexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with a
gasp--but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that--it wasn't you I
expected. I was in church--ten days ago. And the rector said--people
might come--here--and--he'd try to help them. It seemed to me I could
talk to him. He was--fatherly. But you're"--the voice trailed into a
sob--"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, but none came. "I
mean--it's harder."
"I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. And there's
no one like the rector--one could tell him anything. I know that. But if I
can help you--I'm here for that, you know. That's all there is to
consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instant effect.
"Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herself together,
and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inward indecision blew
her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap close by shook
heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the two in the
dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As the rolling
echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the rector," she said,
and held out her hand. "Thank you for your kindness--and patience. I
am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" and her voice shook, in spite of
her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tell you," she said. "I'm going to ask
you to help me, if you will be so good. You are here for the rector,
aren't you?"
"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do all
I can for--any one."
She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want," she
considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a chair
to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now in
sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress and
the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and patter
of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note of pleasure
and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she said.

"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man
widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after.
They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it. Parsons
mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So when I
heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be
honest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. He
seemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talk to
him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--in
confidence, you know--if he