sion of sympathy, any meaningless platitudes, any pious attempt at consolation. So he compromised with his true errand by inquiring into the particulars of John Bradley's death. There was not much for her to tell. He had failed, steadily, since the time of the trial. On the afternoon before, his heart had refused to perform its proper function, and all was soon over. She told it very briefly and concisely.
"And the funeral, Mrs. Bradley?"
"It will be to-morrow afternoon."
The rector thought it possible that she might ask him to come and read at least a prayer; but she made no suggestion of the kind. He attempted to draw her into conversation concerning herself, but she was reticent. She was not discourteous, but she was totally unresponsive. Finally, failing to approach the subject by degrees, he said to her abruptly:
"I owe you an apology for coming here after you had declined to receive me; but I felt that, under changed conditions, a visit from me might not be wholly unwelcome. So I have run the risk of trespassing on your forbearance."
She made no reply, and he went on:
"I have thought very often of you, and," with a glance in the direction of the half-opened door, "of your unfortunate husband. I have many times wanted to give you such comfort as I could, such consolation as the Church offers to those in distress."
"Thank you!" she replied; "but I have stood in no particular need of comfort; and I'm very sure the Church has nothing to offer me, in the way of consolation, that would be of the slightest benefit to me."
This was not very encouraging, but the rector of Christ Church was not easily dismayed.
"Even so," he said, "you might still wish, or might be willing, to have me, as a minister, take part in the funeral service. I should esteem it a privilege to do that, with your permission."
