d your husband's father agree?"

"I at least try to please him. You would not call him a pleasant old
man: and of course he charges this new adventure down to my
influence, whereas it is entirely William's notion. I have had
nothing to do with it beyond enlisting Uncle Matthew's help."

John glanced at her as though to read her face in the darkness.
"Was that also William's notion?" he asked.

But here again he betrayed his ignorance. True woman, though she may
have ceased to love her husband, or may never have loved him, will
cover his weakness. "We have our ambitions, Jack, although to you
they seem petty enough. You must make William's acquaintance.
He has a great opinion of you. I believe, indeed, he thinks more of
you than of me. And if he wishes to leave Lincoln for London, it is
partly for my sake, that I may be happier in a great city where my
fault is not known."

"If, as it seems, he thinks of your earthly comfort but neglects your
soul's health, I shall not easily be friends with him."

By this time they were close to the garden gate.

"Is that you, Jack?" Charles's voice hailed over the dark hedge of
privet.

The pair came to a halt. Hetty's eyes were fastened imploringly on
her brother. He did not see them. If he had, it would have made no
difference. He pitied her, but in his belief her repentance was not
thorough: he had no right to invite her past the gate.

"Good-bye," he whispered.

She understood. With a sob she bent her face and kissed him and was
gone like a ghost back into the darkness.

Charles met him at the gate. "Hallo," said he, "surely I heard
voices? With whom were you talking?"

"With Hetty."

"Hetty?" Charles let out a whistle. "But it is about her I wanted to
speak, here, before you go indoors. I say--where is she? Cannot we
call her back?"

"No: we have no right. To some extent I have changed my mind about
her: or rather, she has forced me to change it. Her soul is
hardened."

"By whose fault?"

"No matter by whose fault: she must learn her responsibility to God.
Father has been talking with you, I suppose."

"Yes: he is bitterly wroth--the more bitterly, I believe, because he
loves you better than any of us. He says you have him at open
defiance. 'Every day,' he cried out on me, 'you hear how he
contradicts me, and takes your sister's part before my face. And now
comes this sermon! He rebukes me in the face of my parish.'
Mind you, I am not