onscience. It was a pale, gentle face, on which
there were still streaks of pink,--a soft, laughing face it had been
once, and still there was a gleam of light in the eyes that told of
past merriment, and almost promised mirth to come, if only some great
evil might be cured. Her long flaxen curls still hung down her face,
but they were larger, and, as Fenwick thought, more tawdry than of
yore; and her cheeks were thin, and her eyes were hollow; and then
there had come across her mouth that look of boldness which the use
of bad, sharp words, half-wicked and half-witty, will always give.
She was dressed decently, and was sitting in a low chair, with a
torn, disreputable-looking old novel in her hand. Fenwick knew that
the book had been taken up on the spur of the moment, as there had
certainly been someone there when he had knocked at the door.

And yet, though vice had laid its heavy hand upon her, the glory
and the brightness, and the sweet outward flavour of innocence, had
not altogether departed from her. Though her mouth was bold, her
eyes were soft and womanly, and she looked up into the face of the
clergyman with a gentle, tamed, beseeching gaze, which softened and
won his heart at once. Not that his heart had ever been hard against
her. Perhaps it was a fault with him that he never hardened his heart
against a sinner, unless the sin implied pretence and falsehood.
At this moment, remembering the little Carry Brattle of old, who
had sometimes been so sweetly obedient, and sometimes so wilful,
under his hands, whom he had petted, and caressed, and scolded, and
loved,--whom he had loved undoubtedly in part because she had been so
pretty,--whom he had hoped that he might live to marry to some good
farmer, in whose kitchen he would ever be welcome, and whose children
he would christen;--remembering all this, he would now, at this
moment, have taken her in his arms and embraced her, if he dared,
showing her that he did not account her to be vile, begging her to
become more good, and planning some course for her future life.

"I have come across from Bullhampton, Carry, to find you," he said.

"It's a poor place you're come to, Mr. Fenwick. I suppose the police
told you of my being here?"

"I had heard of it. Tell me, Carry, what do you know of Sam?"

"Of Sam?"

"Yes--of Sam. Don't tell me an untruth. You need tell me nothing, you
know, unless you like. I don't come to ask as having any authority,
only as a friend