"Now you will come back to
supper with me, and we will trace your sin to its very root, please
God. You've had a warning that I think you are not likely to forget."

But Tom, in the sudden relief from the horrible fear that he had
inadvertently taken the life of a fellow creature, had broken into a
passion of sobs, shedding such tears as a man sheds but once in a
lifetime--scalding tears of bitter repentance and shame.

He and Mr. Curzon sat talking far into the night, and Tom told the
story truly, keeping nothing back.

"You've let drink and passion get the upper hand, Tom. You have put
the love of a woman before the love of God, and you've come near to
wrecking your life and hers in consequence. It would not have mended
matters if you had hurried yourself into another world to which you
have given so little thought, would it? It was a mad, wicked thought!
a thought of the devil's own suggestion; but you are saved for the
beginning of a better life, a new life in new surroundings."

Tom glanced up quickly. "Not in Tasmania," he said. "The squire won't
send me, after this."

"You'll tell him about it, then," replied Mr. Curzon, with a
heart-throb of thanksgiving that Tom was ready to face out the
consequences of his action.

"Oh yes; I shall tell him. He might hear it any way, but I'd rather
tell him myself."

"Very good. Now you had better go home to bed, and, if you have never
said a real prayer before, you will say one to-night, Tom, to the God
who has saved you from falling over a precipice of crime."

Tom nodded; his heart was too full to speak.

When the morning broke it found the rector in his study where Tom had
left him, still upon his knees, for here and there, in this hurrying
nineteenth century world, there is yet found a disciple who, like the
Master whom he serves, will spend whole nights in prayer. Was not the
salvation of a soul at stake?

A fresh development of Rose Lancaster's love-affairs was brought to Mr.
Curzon's notice on Monday, for the first person he met, as he left the
rectory in the morning, was Rose herself--a crumpled dishevelled Rose,
whose toilet gave evidence of hurry, and whose eyes were red with
weeping.

"Oh, sir, I've come because I didn't know what to do. We're all in
dreadful trouble!--Dixon's gone!"

"Not dead!" cried the rector in horror.

"Oh no; he's run away. And oh, it's cruel, cruel! to have used me like
this," said Rose, her sobs bursting out af