When her visitors were gone, Nora sat for a long time gazing into the flickering firelight, thankful that she could be alone and undisturbed. She wanted to try to think quietly; to calm, if possible, the tumult of conflicting feelings that contended for the mastery, intense pity for the poor woman, in whose lot she had been led to feel so strong an interest; bitter disappointment and indignation with the man of whom she had thought so highly, who had so heartlessly thrown aside the duties he owed, as a man and a minister of Christ, to the woman whom he had taken "for better or worse," in her weakness and misery; and yet, also, mingled with a sorrowful sense of "the pity of it" all, and with something of that divine quality of compassionate charity, which is always ready to believe that, "Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner."

To Nora, indeed, with her own simple directness, staunch loyalty, and passionate impulse to help and sympathize, it was almost impossible to understand the workings of a self-centred, coldly fastidious nature like Mr. Chillingworth's. Yet she dimly felt that he, too, must have suffered, and must suffer much more; and suffering always, to some extent, enlisted her sympathy. But he had shattered her ideal, and that was indeed hard to get over and forgive. His eloquent expositions and high standard of moral duty, his glowing appeals to live the nobler life, had so captivated her imagination, as to attract her irresistibly to the man, whom she in her inexperience identified with the ideals he preached. If he himself had so failed, how could he teach others? And bitter tears rose to her eyes as she thought of the contrast between the mental image she had cherished and the poor and pitiable reality. And as, moreover, there rose before her the picture of Mr. Pomeroy, a man Mr. Chillingworth treated with special consideration, handing over this poor woman to the police with bland unconcern, she could not refrain from one of those sweeping conclusions in which an enthusiastic nature is so apt to indulge, in a moment of bitter disappointment. Was it all mere talk, then? Did no one try to live out the spirit of the Master they all professed to honor? Was there no one who aimed at being really Christ-like, at "loving his neighbor as himself"? Was there no one? But almost at once—with a sharp pang of self-reproach—came the recollection of Mr. Alden's earnest life of love and labor, of Grace's sweet loving nature, of her own brother, never talking about grand ideals, but living and working from hour to hour; of Miss Spencer's happy and tender ministry in the laborious service of suffering humanity; of poor Lizzie Mason's life of humble self-sacrifice; and, last but not least, of Roland Graeme, with his self-forgetful enthusiasm and his passion for helping and raising the down-trodden and oppressed. Yes, she was glad to think of such examples. And yet, as far as she knew, Lizzie Mason was not a "professing Christian;" and Roland Graeme—did they not call him an "unbeliever"? It was a bewildering puzzle to her, with her a priori conceptions. Might it then be true that, while some people—so-called believers—only "believed they believed," others, so-called unbelievers, only believed that they did not believe? And she remembered the Master's own grieved expostulation:—

"Why call ye me Lord! Lord! and do not the things which I say?"

But, beneath all the heart-sickness produced by this miserable story, she was dimly conscious of an involuntary relief from a conflict which had been going on in her mind, for some time, between what she wished to think about Mr. Chillingworth, and the disappointing conviction that was being forced in upon that underlying consciousness which will not be hoodwinked even by strong inclination. Of whatever kind had been the attraction that had biassed her in Mr. Chillingworth's favor, it was broken now, forever; and her present temptation was, perhaps, in her youthful intolerance, to think too hardly of him, to forget what most people would call the "extenuating circumstances," and his blindness and limitations. But, in a nature like Nora's, a long-cherished ideal dies hard. And at last, retreating to the seclusion of her own room, she threw herself on her knees—the natural instinct of an oppressed heart—the pain soon finding expression in irresistible tears, which at least brought some relief.

Next morning, Roland was in attendance at the police court, and succeeded in procuring the release of the so-called "Mrs. Travers," by the payment of a fine, thereby saving the poor victim of a hereditary craving from a period of humiliating confinement in gaol, among criminals of the lowest class. His interference called forth sneering and ill-natured comments from some of the low bystanders, of a type whose natural tendency is to put the worst possible construction on every action. But for this he cared little, putting the unhappy young woman into a cab, and sending her to the hospital, while he himself hurried back to his office-work, satisfied with having rescued one sufferer from further degradation.

Miss Spencer was ready to receive her without a reference to this miserable episode. But when, exhausted and miserable, her beauty quite obscured by the effects of the intoxication and of her wretched night, the poor girl, as she still seemed, was led back into the peaceful retreat she had so insanely left, she threw one look around her, and then cast herself at the nurse's feet in a passion of tears and sobs. And in the same spirit in which the Man of Sorrows had comforted and encouraged the repentant Magdalen, did the tender-hearted Christian nurse comfort and encourage this poor penitent. This, at least, was the thought that passed through the mind of Nora, who, having come early to the hospital to inquire whether the wanderer had returned, was an unnoticed but deeply interested spectator of the scene.

Nora never knew how she got through the performance of the oratorio that evening. The brilliancy of the scene, the dress-display, the crowded audience, distasteful as they were in her present mood, were powerless to banish oppressive thoughts, and that scene in the hospital, which stood before her, as the touching chorus rose in all the tender beauty of the music:—

"Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."

As she stood singing these words with her heart in her voice, and that sad scene before her, she caught Roland's earnest absorbed eyes, lighted with a softened emotion that made her for the moment wonder whether he, too, had the same thought in his mind. But she carefully avoided looking at Mr. Chillingworth, who, with an unusually bright and animated expression, was enjoying to the full both the music and the "success" which every one declared the oratorio to be. The soloists were admirable both in voice and manner, the choruses had been carefully practised and were remarkably well rendered, the "Halellujah Chorus" in particular, bursting forth with great effect, and, as the Minton Minerva expressed it, "taking the house by storm." It seemed to thrill through every nerve of Roland Graeme, as he caught the grand old words:

"The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!"

In his own sense he could profoundly sympathize with the glorious hope.

Mr. Chillingworth sang in this and some other choruses, though he preferred to be a listener and spectator through the greater part of it. He naturally sought Miss Blanchard at the close, to exchange congratulations on the result of the long preparation. But her response was not the natural, enthusiastic one he expected, and he noticed her unusual paleness, attributing it to over-fatigue, a plea she was very ready to adopt, as an excuse for getting off to her cab, with her sister-in-law, as soon as possible.

It often happens, when we are thinking with dread and anxiety how some particular crisis is to be passed, that the "logic of events" settles it for us in a totally unexpected manner. While Nora was perplexing herself as to what was to be done with this secret, of which Mr. Chillingworth ought to be told, circumstances arose that gave her thoughts a new direction, and took matters for the present entirely out of her hands.