f thy Passion," and upon his own
children, and lastly upon himself, "the chief of sinners and the least of
thy servants that is not worthy to be called thy friend." It touched Mr.
Dent exceedingly, and he was yet more touched and reconciled to the
incident when his host said simply, remaining on his knees, with eyes
closed and his clear cut tranquil face upturned:

"I ask your blessing, sir."

The Rector's voice trembled a little as he gave it. And then with real
gratitude and a good deal of sincere emotion he shook his friend's hand,
and rustled out from the cool house into the sunlit garden, greeting
Isabel who was walking up and down outside a little pensively, and took
the field-path that led towards the hamlet where his sick folk were
expecting him.

As he walked back about five o'clock towards the village he noticed there
was thunder in the air, and was aware of a physical oppression, but in
his heart it was morning and the birds singing. The talk earlier in the
afternoon had shown him how, in the midst of the bitterness of the Cup,
to find the fragrance where the Saviour's lips had rested and that was
joy to him. And again, his true pastor's heart had been gladdened by the
way his ministrations had been received that afternoon. A sour old man
who had always scowled at him for an upstart, in his foolish old desire
to be loyal to the priest who had held the benefice before him, had
melted at last and asked his pardon and God's for having treated him so
ill; and he had prepared the old man for death with great contentment to
them both, and had left him at peace with God and man. On looking back on
it all afterwards he was convinced that God had thus strengthened him for
the trouble that was awaiting him at home.

He had hardly come into his study when his wife entered with a strange
look, breathing quick and short; she closed the door, and stood near it,
looking at him apprehensively.

"George," she said, rather sharply and nervously, "you must not be vexed
with me, but----"

"Well?" he said heavily, and the warmth died out of his heart. He knew
something terrible impended.

"I have done it for the best," she said, and obstinacy and a kind of
impatient tenderness strove in her eyes as she looked at him. "You must
show yourself a man; it is not fitting that loose ladies of the Court
should mock--" He got up; and his eyes were determined too.

"Tell me what you have done, woman," he cried.

She put out her