to undress
him--without help--as it required a practised hand, and for a moment the
vicar left the room to bring up some restorative and the bandages which
had been sent for to the surgery. He had turned into the dining-room,
when to his surprise the doctor came quickly but softly downstairs,
entered the room, and gently closed the door.

"Do you feel that you could bear another great shock just now?" he said
in a curious tone, taking hold of the vicar's wrist as he spoke. "Yes, I
think you can; your nerves are pretty firm."

"What do you mean? Is he dead?"

"No; but I have undressed him, and under his shirt near his heart found
something which I think you ought to see. I may be mistaken, but I
seldom miss observing a likeness, especially one so strong as this"--and
he held out a locket attached to a silken cord and holding a likeness.

The vicar trembled as he stretched out his hand for it. Some prevision
of the truth had already flashed upon him; and as he carried the trinket
to the candle above the mantel-piece he leaned heavily against the wall
and groaned as though he had been smitten with sudden pain.

"A man like that could scarcely have been cruel to a woman, at all
events," said the doctor in a low but emphatic tone. "Poverty is not the
worst of human ills, and even occasional want, if it be not too
prolonged, is endurable--more endurable than brutal neglect and
indifference. This poor fellow was going home to his child, I think?"

The vicar clasped the young man's hand, and bent his noble gray head
upon his shoulder. "Take my thanks, my dear friend," he said with a sob.
"You have recalled me to myself. He was my sister's husband."

As the vicar sat by the bedside that night watching, watching, the
injured man moved and tried to raise himself, but fell back with a heavy
sigh.

The good parson was bending over him in a moment.

"Shall I fetch the doctor again?" he asked.

"No; I must speak to you now, alone."

It was nearly an hour before the vicar went to the stair-head, and
called for his sister and the doctor to come up. We never heard quite
what took place--what was the conversation between the vicar and his
guest. But the next day the vicar went to London, and before the week
was out a plain funeral went from the vicarage to the old churchyard,
and the curate conducting the burial service had to stop with his
handkerchief to his eyes, for in the church, clad in deep mourning, was
a little girl