and opposite step tremblingly met Isabel's; and then both steps stepped from each other, and soon Isabel came back to him.
'Thou didst knock, and slide it underneath the door?'
'Yes, and she hath it now. Hark! a sobbing! Thank God, long arid grief hath found a tear at last. Pity, sympathy hath done this.—Pierre, for thy dear deed thou art already sainted, ere thou be dead.'
'Do saints hunger, Isabel?' said Pierre, striving to call her away from this. 'Come, give me the loaf; but no, thou shalt help me, my sister.—Thank thee;—this is twice over the bread of sweetness.—Is this of thine own making, Isabel?'
'My own making, my brother.'
'Give me the cup; hand it me with thine own hand. So;—Isabel, my heart and soul are now full of deepest reverence; yet I do dare to call this the real sacrament of the supper.—Eat with me.'
They ate together without a single word; and without a single word, Pierre rose, and kissed her pure and spotless brow, and without a single word departed from the place.
VII
We know not Pierre Glendinning's thoughts as he gained the village and passed on beneath its often shrouding trees, and saw no light from man, and heard no sound from man, but only, by intervals, saw at his feet the soft ground-lightnings, snake-like, playing in and out among the blades of grass; and between the trees, caught the far dim light from heaven, and heard the far wide general hum of the sleeping but still breathing earth.
He paused before a detached and pleasant house, with much shrubbery about it. He mounted the portico and knocked distinctly there, just as the village clock struck
