Tom had taught Meg to drive a little; she managed to harness Molly with some difficulty, and started on the long, lonely road across the marshes, without any fears. She was never afraid of bodily danger.

She was not a good driver, her wrists were too weak; they ached painfully before she was a quarter of the way to N——town, and Molly began to feel them "give," and pulled the harder, recognising that the person at the other end of the reins had not so tight a hand as Tom.

Another hour passed; Meg bit her lips hard, and grew rather pale with the effort she was making to remain mistress of the situation. Molly seemed bent on pulling her arms out. The reins cut her fingers; but what did that matter, when every minute was a minute nearer her father? The road was level and unfrequented, which was fortunate, for she could not possibly have managed the mare downhill.

This last reflection had just occurred to her, when the pace decreased, giving her a momentary sense of relief, followed, however, by the horrible discovery that Molly was going very lame.

A huge, sharp-pointed flint had lodged in the horse's shoe; and what to do now the poor driver really didn't know. The cart was high, and Molly was bad at standing; but Meg pulled up in desperation at last, tied the reins to the seat, and sprang down from the wheel.

Molly actually did condescend to stop for a minute, though she eyed Meg very suspiciously, with her ears well back. Meg picked up an old bit of iron and advanced cautiously.

"Good horse! so then—quiet there!" she said, with a keen sense of her inadequacy, and of Molly's entire and contemptuous consciousness of it. She knelt on the road, and very softly took hold of Molly's fore-leg. Molly snorted, and stamped impatiently. "Tom lifts her foot right up with his left hand, and knocks the stone out with his right," Meg said to herself; "but if Molly won't move that foot, what is one to do?" She pulled gently, making what were meant to be encouraging and reassuring noises, when, at the critical moment, a loud guffaw burst from behind the low mud bank on her left. Molly, started, made a dash forward; and Meg found herself sitting in the very middle of the dusty high road, watching horse and cart disappearing in the distance.

She rubbed her eyes, which were sore with the dust (it was wonderful that she had not been hurt), and mechanically straightened her bonnet; then, becoming aware that one of the farm men, "Long John" by name, was standing staring at her, the ludicrous side of the situation struck her forcibly, and she began to laugh, though with a laughter that was perilously near tears.

"Eh, ma'am, I be main sorry," said Long John. "I doan't knaw how I came to be such a darned fool. It was hearin' yo' talkin' to Molly so soft, like as if she wur a Christian, as set me off smilin'; but I didn't think as she'd ha' tuk to her heels like that, and Maister Tummas he wull be in a takin'!"

"Oh, if you will only catch her!" cried Meg. "Do you think that she has upset the cart? Let us go after her directly."

She got up, and began to run, Long John following with huge strides and muttered ejaculations.

Luckily, Molly had not gone far. They found her about half a mile on.

"I wonder whether she will let you take the stone out?" said Meg; whereat John smiled again, but grew grave when he had examined the foot.

"You've been and gone and done it! It's a bad job; she'll not be fit to use for the next month at best. Lord now! to think o' Maister Tummas trustin' ye wi' Molly!"

"What had better be done?" said Meg. She leaned against the cart, out of breath with running, while the sun beat down on them, and Molly munched contentedly, and John entered into an endless disquisition, in which he conclusively proved that if they drove Molly the twelve miles back to the farm now, she would be probably lamed for life, and "Maister Tummas" would never get over it; and he, John, wouldn't be the one to do it! And if they took her on the three remaining miles to N——town, and put her up there for a night's rest, there would be keep and stabling to pay for, and he would not take the responsibility; and, if they stayed where they were, they were just losing time, when the "poor crittur" ought to be looked to at once, and nothing could be "worserer nor that".

"Then we are sure to be doing wrong anyhow, and there doesn't seem to be a right way?" said the preacher's wife.

"I wouldn't say as there wur, but there be two bad ways, an' it's for yo' to choose, ma'am."

Long John resented the "we," and was determined not to be implicated.

"I wouldn't ha' ye take my word, nor I'd not ha' Maister Tummas suppose as I had aught to do wi' it. It's for yo' to say."

"I am going on, whatever happens," said she; and on they went.

John took Molly at a foot's pace, and Meg walked at his side.

He had begun a long story, to which her ears gave a sort of mechanical attention, while her heart kept urging her to walk faster towards the goal.

"It wur your a-layin' hold of her leg as set the mare off," John was saying. "You wouldn't go fur to say as it wur anyways my fault, would 'ee, ma'am? for Maister Tummas he be fond o' her, and, if I wur to lose th' place now, wi' my missus lookin' to be i' th' straw come Michaelmas, it 'ud go hard wi' us surely."

"It was no one's fault but mine," said Meg. "Oh, when shall we get there?—You seem very much afraid of Mr. Thomas, John; I thought he was supposed to be such a good master."

"Oh, so he be, so he be," said John. "The Thorpes be good maisters, good friends, an' good enemies. They stick to a mon, they do; not one belongin' to 'em has been let die i' th' union without it wur his own fault; but Maister Tummas he doan't use many words when he's angry, and he ain't often; but I'd not care to face him if I'd lamed Molly, for last time I broke th' pony's knees he says to me, 'Next time ye'll go, John!' And he means what he says. And he did near drown me then! So he did! and I did think o' havin' the law o' him, but he advised me not, and Maister Tummas' advice is allus good; he's precious sharp.

"It wur through bein' a bit overtook at Mary's funeral. I come whoam late, and I doan't mind rightly just how it wur, but I lost the pony on the road, and all of a suddent I found mysel' under th' pump i' th' yard; and Maister Tummas wur turnin' the water on, and another mon wur holdin' me under. Eh, I thought he had murdered me! afore he let me go, I can tell thee, I hollered out loud, wheniver my mouth was clear o' th' watter, and he says, 'Naw, naw, doan't let him off too soon; when he's swallowed as much water as he did rum, happen he'll remember it'. I tell 'ee, I walked back whoam straight; he scared me sober, but it wur a cowd winter's mornin', and I wur wet through and through, as if I'd been in th' river an hour, an' I think he near drownt me. I'd ha' sworn he wur within an inch o' it. And th' next mornin' I thinks it ower, and I goes to him and says I, 'Maister, I wur a bit overtook last neet, but ye'd no right to do that, if I wur; for I bain't no slave, I be a free Briton as much as thaesel''. And Maister Tummas looks at me so as I had to keep tellin' mysel' I wur bigger nor he, fur th' way he looks do mak' a mon feel growin' small; an' says he, 'So ye be, John! Free to be as drunk as a lord all th' day long, if 'ee likes!' An' says I, 'I'm thinkin' I'll ha' th' law on ye, Maister Tummas;' and says he, 'Then ye'll be a bigger fool nor ye look'.

"'Yo're cruel hard on a mon as has been buryin' his child,' says I; and Maister Tummas laughs. 'I suppose ye think she's so well off, ye'll be sendin' the other to join her?' says he. 'What do 'ee mean?' I asks. 'I never heard as childer con live on grass,' says he, turnin' round serious like; 'nor as bread cud be got for naught; it doan't grow i' th' fields hereabouts, ready baked! If I'd gi'en ye the sack i'ste'd o' the pump, where 'ud they be, eh? Look 'ee here, if ye be a wise mon, ye'll go to work wi'out more words; an' if ye be a fool, ye con go an' spout about free Britons i' the public; but, if 'ee do that, doan't talk to me about your childer, for I shan't tak' 'ee back, an' your big words won't fill their empty stomachs.' So I went back, an' Maister Tummas an' I war quits; for he doan't niver cast a thing up when he's done wi' it. Clemmin' ain't pleasant, an' I hadn't much hankerin' for it arter all. Howsumever, I doan't drink when I've got his horses now. Naw, naw; I saves up for Sunday; an' I bain't sure as it ain't th' best way all round, to tak' one's fill on th' right day. One gets a more thorough satisfaction out o' one big drink, than i' sips all th' week; doan't 'ee think so, ma'am?"

"I daresay," said Meg absently. A passing wonder as to what Barnabas would have said to this definition of Sunday as pre-eminently "th' right day for drink" floated through her mind—with also a faint disgust at the flavour of brutality in the story about Tom; but they were nearing N——town by this time. In two more hours she might be at Lupcombe!

It was market day, and the streets were crowded. Meg accompanied Long John to the stables of the "Pig and Whistle," and saw Molly comfortably housed. Having lamed her, it was the least she could do. Then she proceeded to a pawnbroker's. She had the preacher's savings in her pocket, but she could not touch them. It might be a straining of gnats; but she wouldn't use his money in an enterprise he objected to.

She had something else in her purse as well, and that she would part with, though the parting cost her a pang.

The diamond-circled miniature that had been stolen from her when a child; that the preacher had brought back; that was on her neck, when he and she walked out of Ravenshill together, long, long ago—ah, how long ago it seemed now!—she could sell that.

Meg had worn it under her dress every day, and always since she had married. She had never told Barnabas that she still had it; she had not forgotten his violent denunciation of the stones bought "with too high a price"; but she had kept it for her father's sake, and for her father's sake she would let it go now.

The diamonds were valuable. The miniature itself was worth a good deal. Meg did not know how much she ought to get for it, but had a vague idea that it would more than pay for a carriage and horse to Lupcombe, and for the return journey, and Molly's stabling. As a matter of fact, she received rather less than a sixth part of its real value; but it was a red-letter day for the pawn-broker. She was on the direct road to Lupcombe at last. She would see her father—beyond that?—well, beyond that might be the deluge.

Mrs. Russelthorpe sat by the window of her brother's room. It was a pretty room; for the guest-room of the parsonage was emphatically "the best bedroom" of the house.

She had come down at once on hearing of his illness, but now the patient was surprisingly better. That most sadly hopeful of diseases had loosened its hold, and Mr. Deane was as cheerful as possible; indeed, his sister found him almost irritatingly contented. She was anxious to get him away from this dangerous neighbourhood. She knew that the Thorpes lived somewhere in the county; but he, alas! had not the faintest desire to move.

She sat and embroidered, her long fingers moving the faster when she thought; her lips compressed closely. When she glanced at Charles her face softened. She loathed a sick room; but she was fond of him, even when he was ill.

His features, refined by illness, were more painfully like Meg's than ever; and that made her impatient.

Certainly she had enough to bother her! Mrs. Russelthorpe could not bear accepting favours from any one, and here she was compelled to stay under the stranger's roof indefinitely!

Charles took it very lightly. He was grateful to his old friend; but the obligation did not harass him. He was generous and very hospitable himself, and would have done as much for his host if the circumstances had been reversed. Besides, he was one of the people who are born favourites; and even strangers always gave him willing service. As the old housekeeper remarked, "Mr. Deane was such a gentleman as it was an honour and pleasure to do for".

There had been some coldness between him and his sister of late, for he had strongly disapproved her threatened action concerning her husband's will.

"It is not like any of us to take to airing family grievances in public," he had said proudly; and his reproof had impressed her.

Charles seldom played the part of mentor; but on the rare occasions when he did, his words always stung, though they seldom made her alter her course.

Presently he woke up and called her. "Sis, I wish you would put down that work and come nearer; that is"—with the quick thoughtfulness for other people which never deserted him—"if you won't go out and get some fresh air; you hate a sick room, I know. Really, it was very good of you to come."

"I can't sit with my hands before me," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; but she brought her chair up to the bedside. "You mustn't talk too much, Charles."

"On the whole," said Mr. Deane smiling, "I should prefer dying of talking, to dying of dulness."

"There is no question of dying!"

"No," he answered. "I feel like Mother Hubbard's dog; 'she went to the joiner's to buy him a coffin; and, when she came back, the dog was a-laughin''. I'm getting well with indecent haste! I shall go downstairs soon; but, all the same, there was a question of it three days ago,—as we both know well enough!"

"The danger is past now, and there is no need to dwell on it," said his sister, with a sharp closing of the subject, and with that accent of finality in her voice which Charles was generally either too sweet-tempered or too lazy to resist.

To-day, however, he persisted, though he stretched out his hand towards her, with the half-playful tenderness that endeared him especially to the women of his own family.

"Poor sis! You hate to be reminded that I am mortal; and, what is more, a mortal with an even less certain tenure of life than most; but I don't want to shirk facts myself; indeed, they've presented themselves so very forcibly lately that it would hardly be possible. Of course, I've known for the last five years that I am—well, we'll say the cracked pitcher, that may last the longest; I will put it that way to please you; but may go with a touch. But it's one thing to know that one may die any day, and another to know that the day is not possibly, but most probably within hailing distance. I think I have never been much afraid of Death; but the sight of him quite close does purge one's vision. It makes realities clearer, and the things that don't matter dwindle away. It is good for any man to see in right proportion for once in a way. Don't you think so?"

"My dear Charles, if you are talking about your soul, and your sins, and all that kind of thing, no doubt a serious illness may make you feel their importance; though I can't say I think you needed it. But if you are talking about practical affairs, never trust to decisions made when you are out of health: illness does not make the vision clearer; it renders one liable to foolish weakness and error of judgment!"

"Spoken like a Solomon!" said Mr. Deane, laughing. He looked at her with a gleam of fun from the bed where he lay stretching out a hand to play with the silks on her lap. "I am sure, by the great vigour with which you delivered yourself of that maxim, that you are horribly afraid I have some 'foolish weakness' in view. Well—I've been thinking about my Meg."

Mrs. Russelthorpe sat more upright; her needle flew quicker still.

"She is not yours any more," she said, with a hard ring in her voice. "And it is an unprofitable subject for meditation. She concerns us no longer."

"So I have said," he answered; "but, after all, nothing in this world, or, I hope, in the next, can do away with the fact of fatherhood. It goes deeper than one's hurt pride. You see," in a low voice, "it is the eternal fact that one turns to oneself at the last. It is the root of all things."

His face flushed while he spoke, for he was not a man who talked often of his religious beliefs; his sister had never known him touch on them before.

"I wish you wouldn't excite yourself," she answered coldly, after a minute's silence. "To say nothing can do away with the parent's duty to his child is nonsense! God Himself doesn't claim to be the Father of the impenitent and disobedient—though I think it presumption to bring Him into a discussion. Are you weak enough to want to give the preacher's wife your blessing and forgiveness unasked? Probably that is what her husband reckoned on, that you would be very angry for a time, and then come round, and take it easily."

She was startled by the sudden passion in her brother's voice.

"Do you think I take it easily?" he said. "Don't you know that I would rather—yes, ten times rather have seen my child in her coffin, than have lost her so? No, no, I don't want to send for her; where would be the use? If she is happy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy—why, as we sow, so we must reap—both she and I, both father and child. She knows that too, I expect. My poor Meg! Ah well" (with a sudden change of tone), "Meg has made a mess of her life; but even you must allow, sis, that if it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't have had a life to make a mess of, eh? You can't get over that!"

"What are all these truisms leading up to?" inquired Mrs. Russelthorpe drily. She was immensely relieved to hear that he did not meditate sending for Meg; she felt she could breathe again. Mr. Deane leaned back on his pillows; his earnestness had tired him, and he was silent for a few minutes. Then:—

"No doubt I have been talking platitudes!" he said. "You mustn't expect an invalid to be strikingly original! I can't be brilliant in bed; and old truths impress one with new force when one lies face to face with—Oh yes, I said that before, didn't I? Well, when one is up and about, one is impressed by such a variety of things, and I have always detested business! Do you know that I've never made my will till now, though I've thought of it often enough! I sent for Mr. Sauls to witness it for me, and he is coming this evening. He has been staying at N——town. Our host has asked him to dine by-the-bye; I will finish the job this time!"

"Mr. Sauls! You might have spared me that!"

"Oh, you needn't see him. Say that I like your company, which is quite true, and have dinner up here with me. I wrote a line to him before you came, when—well, when I thought there wasn't much time to lose. If one doesn't strike when the iron is hot, the chances are that one doesn't strike at all!"

"I don't see that, Charles."

"No? It doesn't apply to you," with a smile. "I meant only myself and Meg. Well, sis, I don't want my will to be a shock to you, for you and I have always been friends, haven't we?"

Mrs. Russelthorpe's work fell on her knees; she turned to him with an expression which no one but her brother ever saw.

"I've liked you better than any one else always," she said deliberately.

"Poor old Joseph!" thought Mr. Deane; but aloud he said: "Yes, I know that; that's why I am telling you about my affairs. Sauls wants me to leave to her the same amount I shall leave to her sisters. You needn't exclaim! Sauls isn't a bad fellow, but I don't know why he should interfere. I've thought it all over. I have left Meg something—very little—and unconditionally."

"You are very kind to Barnabas Thorpe. He will benefit."

"Yes," said her brother gravely. "I have not tried to prevent it; he must benefit. I think Joseph made a mistake, though he meant kindly to my daughter, and I think Meg was right to refuse the money under such conditions. The preacher is her husband, her duty is to him now, and—well, both she and I have done rash things in plenty; but I hope that neither of us is mean enough to try to shirk the consequences. What I have left her will be something to fall back on if she is ill or in sudden need; not enough to lift her out of his sphere, out of the position she has chosen. I longed to make it more, but I have not done so. Laura and Kate will be all the richer; but I will not have Meg think that I have left off caring for her."

A wave of anger, hot and strong as ever, made his sister's hand shake for a moment; even now, she felt that Meg—unworthy, wicked as Meg had proved—stood between herself and her brother. Meg had always stood "between" from the time her baby hands had clung to him, and pushed Aunt Russelthorpe away, seventeen long years before.

"I have also left to her the things that were her mother's," he continued. "They are of no worth in themselves, and neither of the others would value them much. Laura and Kate are not sentimental, and you were not fond of their mother, sis. Meg will understand why I have left them to her. Poor little Meg! when I am dead she will understand."

Mrs. Russelthorpe rose abruptly. "I am glad you have not been so wickedly weak as to give her an equal share with her sisters, anyhow!" she remarked. "Mr. Sauls should be taught to mind his own business! As for caring for her still, that's culpable folly, I consider, and injustice too. What is the use of being good, if good and bad are to be loved alike? She ought to be punished, she ought to suffer."

"Ah!" said Mr. Deane. "No fear that she won't suffer enough! We fools who make mistakes always pay heavily, even when we make them from pure motives. Mistakes cost as dearly as crimes, I think; in this world anyhow! As for badness, who dares say what is sin, and what error? or divide the blame? I ought to come in for the largest share, I suppose, seeing that Meg inherited her failings from me! I shall stick to the 'culpable folly' of still loving my poor little daughter. It's a pity you don't like it. You never liked me to be fond of Meg."

"It's not that at all," said his sister angrily; "but, thank God, no amount of affection could ever blind me to the difference between right and wrong."

"I think, perhaps," said Mr. Deane, "that one day even you—and I own you are much more consistent and better than I am—may feel inclined rather to thank Him that He is more merciful than men—or women. Are you going?"

"You've talked more than enough, Charles."

"I've taken a most mean advantage of my position. What a shame! And you've had to put up with me because I am in bed. I won't do it any more. Shall you have your dinner up here?"

"No," said Mrs. Russelthorpe. "Why should I? That Mr. Sauls is underbred and self-assertive at times is no reason for my being driven out of the dining-room, or allowing myself to fail in courtesy to our host. Don't laugh like that, Charles! You are making yourself cough."

"I beg your pardon, sis," said he; "but I wish—oh, I wish!—I could be there to see the encounter! Sauls is a pretty stiff antagonist too! I wonder which would get the best of a tussle? I think you would; but I am not sure—really, I am not sure."

"There will be no 'tussle'. Mr. Sauls is too much a man of the world to show any awkwardness at meeting me," said she. And she did him justice, for George betrayed no embarrassment whatever; though the last rather unpleasant interview she had had with him about Mr. Russelthorpe's will was forgotten by neither of them. They dined at three at Lupcombe. In London, six o'clock dinners were the fashion; but fashions took longer in creeping into the country when they had to travel at eight miles an hour.

Mr. Bagshotte's guests were both good talkers. The pleasant tournament of wit, which was a trifle sharp-edged occasionally, went on briskly all dinner time, and the old gentleman believed them charmed to see each other. He got out his favourite Latin quotations,—it was George who gave him the opportunity; and he promised with great satisfaction to show Mr. Sauls the ancient brasses in the middle aisle.

Mrs. Russelthorpe secretly wondered what this very clever lawyer hoped to gain by playing up to the parson. But, to tell the truth, he expected to get nothing; he never grudged trouble where either his friends or his enemies were concerned.

The two men went into the quiet old church after the meal was over, where George examined all that was to be seen with great patience and minuteness. If he had only guessed! If he had had the faintest inkling of what was happening in the garden not much more than a stone's throw away, neither brasses nor parson would have held him long.

There seems an especially unkind irony about the fate that makes us lose a chance by only a stone's throw.

Mrs. Russelthorpe took no interest in brasses; she had a horror of "relics" of any kind. She left Mr. Bagshotte and Mr. Sauls to their own devices; and, her brother being asleep, planted her chair on the lawn with its back to the churchyard, so that she faced the front gate, which stood hospitably open to the village street.

She had had a hard time of it lately; and hard times often, perhaps in the majority of cases, have a hardening rather than a softening effect. Mrs. Russelthorpe always felt that Providence made an unjustifiable mistake when she was visited with affliction.

Her morning's talk with her brother had left an unpleasant impression on her mind, and she reflected impatiently on the way in which, when one wishes to get rid of a haunting thought, everything combines to recall it. The reflection was called forth by a pale thin woman in a black dress who came along the village street, who held her head like a Deane, like Meg in fact, and walked like her too. Somehow, at the first moment, it did not strike Mrs. Russelthorpe that it was Meg.

The woman turned in at the gate; stood still when she saw Mrs. Russelthorpe, lifted her head, looking straight at her, and: "I have come to see my father," she said. "Is he better or worse?"

Mrs. Russelthorpe rose to her feet, her face a little pale; the antagonism that had never died, and scarcely slept, alert as ever, and a passionate determination bracing her soul. This woman should not see Charles! What! after dragging his name in the dust, and after linking it with that of a preaching vagabond, after setting at defiance all decency and obedience, she would "go to her father"! And he, he would be weak enough to forgive her. Illness had unmanned him; though men were always weaker than women, especially where Meg was concerned.

"My brother is better," she said slowly. "You have lost the right to call him father. You cannot go to him. He will not see you."

Meg shook her head with a faint smile, and walked on up the path to the front door. Her old fear of 'Aunt Russelthorpe' was dead. She recognised with a momentary surprise that she had lived past all that.

Mrs. Russelthorpe made a quick step forward and caught her by the arm. She too knew instinctively that she could not coerce or overawe this sad-eyed woman, as she had often coerced the girl long ago; but she could still win the day, and she would.

"Margaret," she cried; "do you—do even you want to kill him?" And Margaret paused.

The two women looked in each other's eyes; both were unflinching and of set purpose, but Mrs. Russelthorpe had still the advantage, for she could "hit below the belt".

"It may actually and literally be his death warrant, if he should be awakened suddenly. He is sleeping now," she said. "I do not want to carry any message from you, Margaret. There need be no pretence of love between you and me. Yet I will go in and prepare him, if you choose. When he wakes, I will say to him whatever you wish me, and I will bring you his answer. Go now, if you like, and force your way in and startle him. The choice is between your own wilfulness and his safety. It rests with you."

She let go her hold on Meg's arm, on completing her sentence. She had gained her point.

"I will wait for you," said Meg. "I will sit here on the doorstep till he sends for me. Only promise that you will take my words as I give them; that you will add nothing, nor take away anything; that you will not try to persuade him not to see me. You swear it?"

She did not move her eyes from her aunt's face; and long after, Mrs. Russelthorpe could not close her own without seeing them. Ah, how Meg had altered!

"I will add nothing to your message, nor take away from it," she repeated.

"Then I promise too," said Meg. "If he says he will not see me I will go away—but he will." Her voice shook. "I know that my father will."

"Well," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; "I am waiting."

Meg covered her face with her hands. "Ah, it will sound differently when you say it," she cried. "Tell him I only beg to see him once more; that I do so long to! That I have thought of him. That I have wanted him often. That I know that he has not forgotten me. That, when I heard he was ill, I could not stay away—I could not! but it is only for a moment. I must ask him to forgive me. Then I will go back, because I have promised," said Meg with a sudden choke, "and because I am his daughter."

Mrs. Russelthorpe turned silently away; and Meg sat down on the doorstep and waited, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the grey church, where the parson and George Sauls were dawdling over inscriptions.

How long she waited she did not know; it might have been half an hour, it might have been five minutes; but she had no doubt as to the result of the message: she could never quite outlive her faith in her father.

She sprang to her feet on hearing a step behind her. "He is awake!" she cried. Her aunt looked away from her; past her into the garden.

"Yes," she said in a dry voice. "He is awake—but he will not see you."

Meg drew her breath quickly, as if she had been physically hurt. "He—he did not mean it," she said. "You have not understood—he did not mean that—he will not. Tell me the words he said."

"He said," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, "'Where would be the use? If she is happy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy—why, as we sow, we reap; both she and I, both father and child.' Those were his very words—and he was right."

Meg looked at her with a strange mournful smile. "Oh, yes, he was right. Tell father he was quite right." And she turned and went.

The parson and Mr. Sauls came back to the parsonage five minutes later. Mrs. Russelthorpe was still standing in the garden; and Mr. Sauls, whose short-sighted eyes saw rather more than most people's, noticed at once that she looked worn and tired.

"Is Mr. Deane worse?" he asked.

"Oh no; I believe he is still sleeping," she said; "I will go and see." And this time she really went.

Her brother was sitting upright, flushed and rather excited.

"Sis, has any one been here?" he asked, the moment that she entered the room. "No? Ah well, it was fancy then—but—but I thought I heard my little daughter call me." The flush faded away; he lay back again disappointed. The wish was father to the thought!

"Charles," she cried, with an eagerness that surprised him, "do let us go away from this place! You will never be yourself till you have left it behind. If we travel by very easy stages I really think we might leave to-morrow. It seems a sudden idea on my part," she went on hurriedly; "but, indeed, the house is not healthy; I am convinced of it. I have had violent headaches ever since I have been here, and you are aware that I am not in the least liable to such ailments. I do not remember ever having felt like this before, and I cannot sleep or eat properly. Then, too, we are putting our kind host to immense inconvenience. The position is intensely awkward for me, though I have refrained from saying so. As for the stories about the fever, they are simply shocking—half the village died of it. I am not nervous; but it is really horrible to find every person one meets in mourning for some near relative."

Mr. Deane looked at her in undisguised astonishment.

"Why, my dear, I've never in my life before seen you possessed of a whim," he cried. "If it were not you, sis, I should say that it was a feminine attack of 'nerves'." And, to his farther surprise, she actually accepted the suggestion.

"I suppose it is," she said. "There, I own it; your illness has shaken me. I feel as if I could not possibly bear this dismal house any longer. All the family who used to live here are gone, and are buried just outside the gates. It is too melancholy; I dream of funerals! Do go, do go! You will be well as soon as we get away. You shall have no trouble; I will arrange everything. I will explain to our host, only let us go! Dear Charles, do let us go to-morrow."

Her voice trembled with unwonted earnestness, and Charles was much amazed and rather touched; it was so utterly unlike her to show any weakness of this kind, to stoop to entreaties. She must, indeed, have been anxious about him, since anxiety had so unnerved her. He had always been sure, he said to himself, that, in spite of what some people said, his sister was very warm-hearted in reality.

"Well, I daresay it won't hurt me. We'll go, if you want it so much, sis," he replied gently. "That is the least I can do for you, after all you've done for me."

And go they did, in spite of the parson's protestations, and in spite of a soft rain that fell continuously as if to damp Mrs. Russelthorpe's ardour, by literally pouring cold water on it.

Mr. Sauls, when he looked in to inquire after Mr. Deane on the following morning, was amused at the sudden exodus.

"Odd that such a hard woman should be such a coward about illness!" he remarked. "She is horribly afraid of infection,—I've noticed that; and she is selfish to the core!"

"Mrs. Russelthorpe's decision is rather overpowering," said the parson drily. It was the nearest approach he allowed himself to an unfavourable comment on his late guest. "I am sorry Deane has gone. It is seldom I get any visitors here; though, by-the-bye, I had an odd one last night—or, rather, early this morning. Mr. Thorpe, the preacher's father, walked in about two o'clock and begged to see me. He came to inquire whether his daughter-in-law was here. The old man must have got some mad fancy in his head. I have heard he is queer at times. Well, I persuaded him that she had never been near us, and he drew himself up and said quite quietly: 'Oh, it's all right, sir; she's sleeping wi' some friends at N——. She told us, that, maybe, she'd do that; quite right o' her. I'm glad of it!' And off he went, with an apology for having troubled me. A gentlemanly old fellow too!"

"Why!" cried George, with a flash of conviction; "are you certain that she has not been here? Don't you know that Barnabas Thorpe's wife is Mr. Deane's daughter?"

The parson started. They were standing in the garden on the very spot where Meg had pleaded in vain.

"Yes, yes, I know; though it seems impossible!"

"It ought to have been. There I quite agree with you; but, to the elect, 'all things are possible,' you know," said George Sauls bitterly.

The parson was too intent on his own thoughts to notice the sneer. "No one was here yesterday; I should have heard of it if she had come. I was hardly out of the rectory grounds all day. Eh? What? What is it, Brown?"

The gardener had come up behind them and touched his hat, with the air of having something to say.

"I beg your pardon, sir; there was some one as come here yesterday, while you and the gentleman was in the church," he said. "I come back into the garden after fetching the key for you, and there was a young woman a-standing here, just where the gentleman is now. I noticed her particular, for she wasn't one from the village; and she seemed in great trouble, and she sort of stretched out her hands, broken-hearted like; and Mrs. Russelthorpe was sending her away, which seemed queer, seeing it ain't her house, and——"

"That will do," said the parson. "Mrs. Russelthorpe's affairs are no concern of yours, Brown; or mine," he added to George, as soon as the man had retired somewhat crestfallen.

"Perhaps Mr. Deane did not wish to see his daughter. God bless me! To think of his daughter! Deane doesn't look a hard man either. I wonder whether,—but it's not my business."

Mr. Sauls smiled, not very pleasantly. "You wonder whether Mr. Deane knew she had been sent away?" he said. "I don't wonder about it, sir; but I'll tell you one thing,—if he didn't, he shall know!"