ming
red. It was pulled up. Harold's outline could be recognised in any
light, but I was entirely hidden in his great shadow, and a voice
called out:

"Halloo, Alison, how do? A chop and claret at the 'Boar'--eh? Come
along."

"Thank you," said Harold, "but I am walking home with Miss Alison--"

The two gentlemen bowed, and I bowed, and oh! how I gripped Harold's
arm as I heard the reply; not openly derisive to a lady, but with a
sneer in the voice, "Oh! ah! yes! But you'll come when you've seen her
home. We'll send on the dog-cart for you."

"No, thank you," said Harold. His voice sounded firm, but I felt the
thrill all through the arm I clung to. "Good night."

He attempted no excuse, but strode on--I had to run to keep up with
him--and they drove on by our side, and Nessy Horsman said, "A prior
engagement, eh? And Miss Alison will not release you? Ladies' claims
are sacred, we all know."

What possessed me I don't know, nor how I did it, but it was in the
dark and I was wrought up, and I answered, "And yours can scarcely be
so! So we will go on, Harold."

"A fair hit, Nessy," and there was a laugh and flourish of the whip. I
was trembling, and a dark cloud had drifted up with a bitter blast, and
the first hailstones were falling. The door of the church was opened
for a moment, showing bright light from within; the bells had ceased.

"My dear Lucy," said Harold, "you had better go in here for shelter."

"Not if you leave me! You must come with me," I said, still dreading
that he would leave me in church, send a fly, and fall a victim at the
"Boar;" and, indeed, I was shaking so, that he would not withdraw his
arm, and said, soothingly, "I'm coming."

Oh! that blessed hailstorm that drove us in! I drew Harold into a seat
by the door, keeping between him and that, that he might not escape.
But I need not have feared.

Ben Yolland's voice was just beginning the Confession. It had so
rarely been heard by Harold that repetition had not blunted his ears to
the sound, and presently I heard a short, low, sobbing gasp, and looked
round. Harold was on his knees, his hands over his face, and his
breath coming short and thick as those old words spoke out that very
dumb inarticulate shame, grief, and agony, that had been swelling and
bursting in his heart without utterance or form--"We have erred and
strayed--there is no health in us--"

We were far behind everyone else--almost in the dark. I don't