“Had you entrusted me with your secret, ma’am, the phrase would have had more significance.  But, obeying my Master, I do not require to think of my own honor.  Those who do not acknowledge their Master, can not afford to forget it.  But if they do not learn to obey Him, they will find by the time they have got through what they call life, they have left themselves little honor to boast of.”

“He has guessed my real secret!” thought poor Juliet, and turning away in confusion, without a word of farewell, went straight into the house.  But before Dorothy, who had been on the watch at the top of the slope, came in, she had begun to hope that the words of the forward, disagreeable, conceited dwarf had in them nothing beyond a general remark.

When Dorothy entered, she instantly accused her of treachery.  Dorothy, repressing her indignation, begged she would go with her to Polwarth.  But when they reached the spot, the gnome had vanished.

He had been digging only for the sake of the flowers buried in Juliet, and had gone home to lie down.  His bodily strength was exhausted, but will and faith and purpose never forsook the soul cramped up in that distorted frame.  When greatly suffering, he would yet suffer with his will—­not merely resigning himself to the will of God, but desiring the suffering that God willed.  When the wearied soul could no longer keep the summit of the task, when not strength merely, but the consciousness of faith and duty failed him, he would cast faith and strength and duty, all his being, into the gulf of the Father’s will, and simply suffer, no longer trying to feel any thing—­waiting only until the Life should send him light.

Dorothy turned to Juliet.

“You might have asked Mr. Polwarth, Juliet, whether I had betrayed you,” she said.

“Now I think of it, he did say you had not told him.  But how was I to take the word of a creature like that?”

“Juliet,” said Dorothy, very angry, “I begin to doubt if you were worth taking the trouble for!”

She turned from her, and walked toward the house.  Juliet rushed after her and caught her in her arms.

“Forgive me, Dorothy,” she cried.  “I am not in my right senses, I do believe.  What is to be done now this—­man knows it?”

“Things are no worse than they were,” said Dorothy, as quickly appeased as angered.  “On the contrary, I believe we have the only one to help us who is able to do it.  Why, Juliet, why what am I to do with you when my father sends the carpenters and bricklayers to the house?  They will be into every corner!  He talks of commencing next week, and I am at my wits’ end.”

“Oh! don’t forsake me, Dorothy, after all you have done for me,” cried Juliet.  “If you turn me out, there never was creature in the world so forlorn as I shall be—­absolutely helpless, Dorothy!”

“I will do all I can for you, my poor Juliet; but if Mr. Polwarth do not think of some way, I don’t know what will become of us.  You don’t know what you are guilty of in despising him.  Mr. Wingfold speaks of him as far the first man in Glaston.”