“The angels are always near us when we are reading the Word, because they read, always, the living Word in heaven.”

Was that the way?  Might she enter so, and find them?

She moved slowly to the table.

It was growing dark.  She struck a match and lit the gas, turning it low.  She laid back the leaves of the large volume, to the latter portion.  She opened it in Matthew,—­to the nineteenth chapter.

When she had read that, she knew what she was to do.

She heard nothing more from Morris Hewland that night.

In the morning, early, she had her room bright and ready for the day.  The light was calm and clear about her.  The shadows were all gone.

She opened her door, and sat down, waiting, before the fire.  Did she think of that night when she had had on the rose-colored silk, and had set the door ajar?  Something in her had made her ashamed of that.  She was not ashamed—­she had no misgiving—­of this that she was going to do now.

She was all alone; she had no other place to wait in she had no one to tell her anything.  She was going to do a plain, right thing, whether it was just what anybody else would do, or not.  She never even asked herself that question.

She heard Mr. Sparrow, with his hop and step, come down over the stairs.  He always came down first of all.  Then for another half hour, she sat still.  At the end of that time, Morris Hewland’s door unlatched and closed again.

Her heart beat quick.  She stood up, with her face toward the open door.  At the foot of that upper flight, she heard him pause.  She could not see him till he passed; and he might pass without turning.  Unless he turned, she would be out of his sight; for the door swung inward from the far corner.  No matter.

He went by with a slow step.  He could not help seeing the open door.  But he did not stop or turn, until he reached the stairhead of the second flight; then he had to face this way again.  And as he passed around the railing, he looked up; for Bel was standing where she had stood last night.

She had put herself in his way; but she had not done it lightly, with any half intent, to give him new opportunity for words.  There was a pure, gentle quiet in her face; she had something herself to say.  He saw it, and went back.

He colored, as he gave her his hand.  Her face was pale.

“Come in a moment, Mr. Hewland,” said the simple, girlish, voice.

He followed her in.

“You asked me questions last night, and I did not know how to answer them.  I want to ask you one question, now.”

She had brought him to the side of the round table, upon whose red cloth the large Bible lay.  It was open at the place where she had read it.

She put her finger on the page, and made him look.  She drew the finger slowly down from line to line, as if she were pointing for a little child to read; and his eye followed it.