reat big strong young
fellows. I've buried twelve young men out of the whole forty-five."

"Poor lads, I doubt if their life had been such a preparation as
yours."

"Don't talk of my life. A stewardship I never set myself to
contemplate, and so utterly failed in. I've got nothing to carry to
my God but broken vows and a wasted year."

"Nothing can be brought but repentance."

"Yes, but look at others who have tried, felt their duties, and
cared for souls; while I thought only of my vows as a restraint, and
tried how much pleasure I could get in spite of them. A pretty
story of all the ministry I shall ever have."

"These last weeks!"

"Common humanity--nonsense! I should always have done as much;
besides, I was crippled everywhere, not merely by want of power as a
priest, but by having made myself such a shallow, thoughtless ass.
But that was not what I wanted to say. It was about Gadley and his
confession."

"O, Herbert! I am afraid I was very unkind that night. I did not
think of anything but our own trouble, nor see how much it had cost
you."

"Of course not--nonsense. You had enough to think of yourself, and
I was only ashamed of having bored you."

"And when I think of the state of that room, I am afraid it was then
you took in the poison."

"Don't say _afraid_. If it was for Jenny, I shall have done some
good in the world. But the thing is--is it good? Will it clear
Douglas? I suppose what he said to you was under seal of
confession?"

"Scarcely so, technically; but when a man unburthens himself on his
death-bed, and then, so far from consenting, shows terror and dismay
at the notion of his words being taken down as evidence, it seems to
me hardly right or honourable to make use of them--though it would
right a great wrong. But what did you get from him?"

"I gave Lady Rose the paper. He raved most horribly for an hour or
two, as if all the foul talk of his pot-house had got into his
brain," said Herbert, with a shudder. "Rector, Rector, pray for me,
that I mayn't come out with _that_ at any rate. It has haunted me
ever since. Well, at last he slept, and woke up sinking but
conscious, knew me, and began to ask if this was death, and was
frightened, clutching at me, and asking to be held, and what he
could do. I told him at least he could undo a wrong, if he would
only authorize us to use what he said to clear Douglas; and then, as
Sister Margaret had come across, I wrote as wel