That made itself, by some clear,
unspoken method, plain.
"You are Sir Oliver Holt! And
a few hours ago you were on the
point of--"
"Ending it all--in an obscure
lodging. Afterward the earth would
have been shovelled on to a work-
house coffin. It was an awful thing."
He shook off a passionate shudder.
"There was no wealth on earth that
could give me a moment's ease--
sleep--hope--life. The whole
world was full of things I loathed the
sight and thought of. The doctors
said my condition was physical. Perhaps
it was--perhaps to-day has
strangely given a healthful jolt to my
nerves--perhaps I have been dragged
away from the agony of morbidity
and plunged into new intense emotions
which have saved me from the
last thing and the worst--SAVED
me!"
He stopped suddenly and his face
flushed, and then quite slowly turned
pale.
"SAVED ME!" he repeated the words
as the curate saw the awed blood
creepingly recede. "Who knows,
who knows! How many explanations
one is ready to give before one
thinks of what we say we believe.
Perhaps it was--the Answer!"
The curate bowed his head
reverently.
"Perhaps it was."
The girl Glad sat clinging to her
knees, her eyes wide and awed and
with a sudden gush of hysteric tears
rushing down her cheeks.
"That 's the wye! That 's the
wye!" she gulped out. "No one
won't never believe--they won't,
NEVER. That's what she sees, Miss
Montaubyn. You don't, 'E don't,"
with a jerk toward the curate.
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