Luke Cleverdon walked slowly, with head bowed, towards Willsworthy. The day was not warm, a cold east wind was blowing down from the moor over the lowlands to the west, but his brow was beaded with large drops.

Anthony had come to him the night before, and had asked to be lodged. He had fallen out with his father, and refused to remain at Hall. Luke knew the reason. Anthony had told him. Anthony had told him more—that Urith was going to request his, Luke's, intercession with her mother.

Neither Anthony nor Urith had the least suspicion of the burden they were laying on the young man. It was his place, thought Anthony, to do what could be done to further his—Anthony's—wishes. Luke was under an obligation to the family, and must make himself useful to it when required. That he should employ his mediation to obtain an end entirely opposed to the wishes of the old man who had housed and fed, and had educated him, did not strike Anthony as preposterous. For the moment, the interests, credit of the family were centred in the success of his own suit for Urith, his own will was the paramount law, which must be obeyed.

Urith thought of Luke as a friend and companion, very dear to her, but in quite another way from that in which she regarded Anthony. Luke had been to her a comrade in childhood, and she looked on him with the same childlike regard that she had given him when they were children; with her this regard never ripened into a warmer feeling.

Anthony had slept soundly during the night. Care for the future, self-reproach, or self-questioning over the past had not troubled him. His father would come round. He had always given way hitherto. He had attempted bluster and threats, but the bluster was nothing, the threats would never be carried out. In a day or two at the furthest, the old man would come to the parsonage, ask to see him, and yield to his son's determination.

"I don't ask him to marry Urith," argued Anthony. "So there is no reason why he should lie on his back and kick and scratch. There is no sense in him. He will come round in time, and Bessie will do what she can for me."

But Luke had not slept. He was tortured with doubts, in addition to the inward conflicts with his heart. He asked himself, had he any right to interfere to promote this union, which was so strongly opposed by the father—so utterly distasteful to him? And, again, was it to the welfare of his cousin, and, above all, of Urith, that it should take place?

He knew the character of both Urith and Anthony. He was well aware how passionate at times, how sullen at others, she was wont to be. He attributed her sullenness to the nagging, teasing tongue, and stupid mismanagement of her mother, and the blunderheadedness of her uncle—interfering with her liberty where they should have allowed her freedom, crossing her in matters where she should have been suffered to follow her own way, and letting her go wild in those directions in which she ought to have been curbed. He knew that this mismanagement had made her dogged and defiant.

He knew, also, how that his cousin, Anthony, had been pampered and flattered, till he thought himself much more than he was; did not know the value of money; was wilful, impetuous, and intolerant of opposition. Would not two such headstrong natures, when brought together, be as flint and steel? Moreover, Luke knew that Anthony had been regarded on all sides as the proper person to take Julian Crymes. It had been an open secret that such an arrangement was contemplated by the parents on both sides, and the young people had, in a measure, acquiesced in it. Anthony had shown Julian attentions which were only allowable on such an understanding. He may have meant nothing by them; nevertheless, they had been sufficiently marked to attract observation, and perhaps to lead the girl herself to conclude that his heart was touched, and that he only tarried a few years to enjoy his freedom before engaging himself.

But Luke was so sensitively conscientious that he feared his own jealousy of his cousin was prompting these suspicions and doubts; and he felt that his own heart was too perturbed for him at present to form a cool and independent survey of the situation.

As he expected and feared, so was it. Urith arrested him on the way up the hill to Willsworthy. She knew he would come to see her mother, and was on the lookout for him. She asked him to plead her cause for her, and in his irresolution he accepted the office, against his better judgment, moved thereto by the thought that he was thus doing violence to his own heart, and most effectually trampling down and crushing under heel his own wishes, unformed though these wishes were.

Luke found Mistress Malvine in her bedroom. She had been greatly weakened by the fit on the previous morning, still more so by the exhaustion consequent on the visits of the afternoon. However ill and feeble she might be, her tongue alone retained its activity, and so long as she could talk she was unconscious of her waning powers. In the tranquillity that followed, when her acquaintances and sympathisers had withdrawn, great prostration ensued. But she had somewhat rallied on the following morning, and was quite ready to receive Luke Cleverdon when announced.

She was in her bed, and he was shocked to observe the change that had come over her. She held out her hand to him. "Ah, Master Luke!" she sighed, "I have need of comfort after what I have gone through; and I am grateful that you have come to see me. Whatever will become of my poor daughter when I am gone! I have been thinking and thinking, and wishing that it had pleased God you were her brother, that I might have entrusted her into your hands. You were here and saw how she went on and took sides with that Son of Belial, that Anthony, when he came concerning the grave of my dear husband. She has no heart, that child. I know she will be glad when I am gone, and will dance on my tomb. I have not spared her advice and counsel, nor have I ever let her go, when I have my rebuke to administer, under half an hour by the clock."

"Madam," said the young curate, "do not now make boast of the amount of counsel and admonition you have administered; it is even possible that this may have been overdone, and may have had somewhat to do with the temper of your daughter. It is now a time for you to consider whether you are prepared, should it please God to call you—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Malvine, "I am thankful to say I am always prepared. I have done my duty to my husband, to my brother, and my child. As for Urith, I have perfectly fed her with my opinions on her conduct in every position and chance of life. My brother has, I am sure, also not to charge me with ever passing it over when he comes home drunk, or gets drunk off our cider, which is no easy matter, but it can be done with application. I have always, and at length, and with vehemence, told him what I think of his conduct."

"You must consider," said the curate, without allowing himself to be drawn into admiration for the good qualities of the sick woman, "you must consider, madam, not how much you have harangued and scolded others, but how much you deserve rebuke yourself."

"I have never spared myself, heaven knows! I have worked hard—I have worked harder than any slave. There are five large jars of last year's whortleberry jam still unopened in the store-room. I can die happy, whenever I have to die, and not a sheet unhemmed, and we have twenty-four."

"There are other matters to think of," said Luke, gravely, "than whortleberry jam—five pots, sheets—twenty-four, rebuke of others—unmeasured, incalculable. You have to think of what you have left undone."

"There is nothing," interrupted the sick woman, "but a few ironmoulds in Solomon's shirts, which came of a nail in the washing-tray. I gave the woman who washed a good piece of my mind about that, because she ought to have seen the nail. But I'll get salt of lemon and take that out, if it please the Lord to raise me up again; at the same time, I'll turn the laundress away."

"It is by no means unlikely that heaven will not raise you up," said the curate, "and in your present condition, instead of thinking of dismissing servants for an oversight, you should consider whether you have never left undone those things which you ought to have done."

"I never have," answered the widow, with disdain, "except once. I ought to have had Solomon's dog Toby hung, but I was too good, too tender-hearted, and I did not. The dog scratched, and was swarming with fleas. Solomon never cared to have him kept clean, and I told him if he did not I would have Toby hung, but I did not. I have, I admit, this on my conscience. But, Lord! you are not comforting me at all, and a minister of the Word should pour the balm of Gilead into the wounds of the sick. Now, if you would have Urith up and give her a good reprimand, and Solomon also, and if you would hang that dog—that would be a comfort to my soul, and I could die in peace."

"With your complaint, Mistress Malvine, you must be ready to die at any moment—whether in a true or false peace depends on your preparation. I am not here to lecture your brother and daughter, and hang a dog because it has fleas, but to bid you search and examine your own conscience, and see whether there be not therein inordinate self-esteem, and whether you have not encouraged the censorious spirit within you till you have become blind to all your own defects, in your eagerness to pull motes out of the eyes of others."

"There! bless me!" exclaimed the widow. "Did you hear that? The soot has fallen down the chimney. I told Solomon to have the chimney swept, and, as usual, he has neglected to see to it. I'll send for him and give him what I think; perhaps," she added, in a querulous tone, "when he considers that the words come from a dying sister he may be more considerate in future, and have chimneys swept regularly."

"I have," said the young curate, "one question on which I require an answer. Are you in charity with all the world? Do you forgive all those who have trespassed against you?"

"I am the most amiable person in the world, that is why I am so imposed on, and Solomon, and Urith, and the maids, and the men take such advantage of me. There is that dog, under the bed, scratching. I hear it, I feel it. Do, prithee, Master Luke, take the tongs and go under the bed after it. How can I have peace and rest whilst Toby is under the bed, and I know the state his hair is in?"

"You say you are on terms of charity with all the world. I conclude that you from your heart forgive my cousin Anthony his unconsiderate act on St. Mark's Eve."

"What!" exclaimed the sick woman, striving to rise in her bed, "I forgive him that—never—no, so help me Heaven, never."

"So help you Heaven!" said Luke, starting up, and answering in an authoritative tone, whilst zeal-inspired wrath flushed his pale face. "So help you Heaven, do you dare to say, you foolish woman! Heaven will help to forgive, never help to harbour an unforgiving spirit. If you do not pardon such a trespass, committed unintentionally, you will not be forgiven yours."

"I have none—none to signify, that I have not settled with Heaven long ago," said the widow, peevishly. "I wish, Master Luke, you would not worry me. I need comfort, not to be vexed on my deathbed."

"I ask you to forgive Anthony, will you do so?"

She turned her face away.

"Now listen to me, madam. He has fallen into disgrace with his father. He has had to leave his home, and his father will have no word with him."

"I rejoice to hear it."

"And the reason is this—the young man loves your daughter Urith." He paused, and wiped his brow.

The widow turned her face round, full of quickened attention.

"That he did not purpose a dishonour to the grave you may be assured, when you know that he seeks the hand of Urith. How could one who loves think to advance his suit by an outrage on the father's memory? It was an accident, an accident he deplores most heartily. He will make what amends he can. Give him your daughter, and then he will have the right of a son-in-law to erect a handsome and suitable tomb to your husband, and his father."

As he spoke, he heard the steps creak, Urith was ascending the stairs, coming to her mother, to throw herself on her knees at her side, clasp her hand, and add her entreaties to those of Luke Cleverdon.

"Help me up!" said Mrs. Malvine.

Then the curate put his arm to her, and raised her into a sitting position. Her face had altered its expression from peevishness to anger. It was grey, with a green tinge about the nose and lips, the lines from the nostrils to the chin were deep and dark. Her eyes had a hard, threatening, metallic glimmer in them.

At that moment Urith appeared in the doorway. Luke stood, with his hand to his chin, and head bowed, looking at the woman.

"You are here, Urith!" said she, holding out her hand towards her spread out. "You have dared—dared to love the man who has dishonoured your father's grave. You have come here to ask me to sanction and bless this love." She gasped for breath. Her face was livid, haggard; but her dark eyes were literally blazing—shooting out deadly-cold glares of hate. The sweat-drops ran off her brow and dropped upon the sheet. The lips were drawn from the teeth. There was in her appearance something of unearthly horror. "You shall never—never obtain from me what you want. If you have any respect for your father's name—any love lingering in your heart for the mother that bore you—you will shake him off, and never speak to him again." She remained panting, and gulping, and shivering. So violent was her emotion that it suffocated her.

"I know," she continued, in a lower tone, and with her hands flat on the coverlet before her, "what you do not—how my life has been turned to wormwood. His mother stood between me and my happiness—between me and your father's heart; and, after what I have endured, shall I forgive that? Aye, and a double injury—the wrong done by Margaret Penwarne's son to my husband's grave?—Never!"

She began to move herself in bed, as though trying to scramble up into a standing posture, and again her hand was threateningly extended. "Never—never shall this come about. Urith! I charge you——"

The girl, alarmed, ran towards her mother. The old woman warned her back. "What! will you do violence to me to stay my words? Will you throttle me to prevent them from coming out of my lips?"

Again she made an effort to rise, and scrambled to her knees: "I pray heaven, if he dares to enter my doors, that he may be struck down on my hearth—lifeless!"

She gave a gasp, shivered, and fell back on the bed.

She was dead.