“Very well,” he said.  “I must abide by your decision, and we will part.”

“We shall still be friends?” she asked timidly.

He did not look at the little hand she outstretched.  “If we cannot be more than friends, we must be less now,” he answered coldly.

He bade her an abrupt good-night and she watched him depart.  Still standing where he had left her she looked through the graceful palms that from their setting of marble partially veiled the drawing-room from the hall and saw him standing, never so handsome as now in his pale sternness, fastidiously drawing on his gloves according to his wont.

Her heart made a final appeal.  Was she mad, that she should drive him away when she loved him?  Let her call him back!  Love is sovereign.  Let it rule.

As a very tiny object may blot out the widest view if it be near enough to the vision, so this glittering treasure of an earthly love swung before her eyes, and it hid the broader prospect of fair and eternal joys in Christ.  “Command that these stones be made bread,” one had said to her Lord when he hungered, and the same strong and subtle one counseled now:  “Take the joy that is offered!  Your heart will be starved and desolate if you let it go.  Call him back!”

Almost her weak heart assented.

“George!” the cry rose, but it died, mercifully, in a whisper upon her dry lips.

Frothingham had quite prepared himself to emerge from the house—­for the last time, probably—­and he passed out, giving no backward glance at the figure that stood beneath the light in the drawing-room.

Winifred roused from her statue-like stillness as the door closed behind him.  The heavy breath of odorous flowers stole in through an open window and sickened her.  For years after she could not dissociate their fragrance from the sorrow of that hour.  She turned to the piano.  He had left his music—­and he would never come back for it!  She turned away and climbed the stairs with heavy steps to her own room.  And there we will leave her, where, after the battle, a heavenly Visitor was to come forth with bread and wine for her refreshing.

CHAPTER XIII

EXPERIENCE

Winifred’s heart did not break.  Or, if it broke, it was quickly healed, for there dwelt in the house One whose office it is to bind up the broken-hearted.  It was not that she did not grieve, or that no void cried out again and again to be filled.  But she learned a paradox as the days went on:  of an inexplicable peace beneath the sharpest pain, and of a buoyant joy that would not be held down by sorrow.  Hubert looked on, making mental notes as to what had happened, but asking no questions.

Our trio of young people who had entered a life of worship found their hearts impelling them toward fields of service also.  Winifred sought in many quiet ways to make known to others Him whom she had come to know with such delight, and a casual visit from Adele one day threw light upon the occupation of the others.