ing, Mrs. Ward; if such early wickedness is
not to be discouraged, I don't know what we
shall come to by-and-by!"

"Mary'll have enough to bear, sir, never
fear; nobody need come near us that would
rather stay away."

The rector rose with an air of displeasure:
"And who is the other delinquent?" asked he,
coldly.

"Mary'll not tell——"

"Worse and worse! Does she mean to carry
on her intrigue?"

"He's far enough away by this, sir——"

"Humph—very bad case altogether, very bad.
Mary will come to no more of my wife's Dorcas
meetings, and perhaps Alice would prefer to
stay away just at present. I must show the
young people that vice is to be discouraged,
Mrs. Ward. Mary has only herself to blame
that she is an outcast. I trust it may be put
into her heart to repent of her wickedness and
to amend her ways." He said nothing of the
sinner being taken back with welcome and
rejoicing—outcast she must be from human society
for ever—only the All-Pure meets returning
sinners. And so he went away, leaving poor Mrs.
Ward somewhat mystified between his Sunday
preaching and his week-day practice.

II.

ALICE WARD'S marriage with Farmer Goodhugh
was deferred by this sad trouble which had
befallen Mary, and there was even some talk of
its going off altogether; but though evil tongues
spoke, the young people, being truly attached to
each other, fulfilled their engagement the next
spring, and Alice removed to Rookwood End.
Mary was then left alone with her mother and
a bright-eyed, four-months old baby, which she
worshipped as fondly, and mothered-up as
delightfully, as if the blessing of God had been
upon it at its coming. Old friends were shy of
the house, but Mrs. Lascelles had been to see
her; and though she came primed with stern
good counsel, as she thought befitted a clergyman's
wife, somehow she did not find the occasion
to utter it. Mary showed her baby with a
perfect motherly tenderness, and the sedate
modesty of her young face forbade all imputation
of lightness, and would have made rebuke
seem very inappropriate. Her child had
comforted her, and though Mary was now and then
sorrowful, she was not miserable; she looked
upon her little one exactly as she would have
done had she been a happily wedded wife, and
this her crowning joy. Mrs. Lascelles had not
the heart to scold her; and when she went
away she even kissed the child as it lay in its
mother's arms, and touched its dimples with a
playful caress. The tears flashed into Mary's
eyes—she had been so longing to ask a question,
and this emboldened her, though her heart beat
very heavily all the time.

"Are you likely to lose Master Frank,
ma'am? Will he be going away to this war
they talk of?"

"I am afraid he will, Mary. I am sorely
afraid he will," replied Mrs. Lascelles, sighing,
Mary's face drooped; she said no more, and her
visitor went away without any more words.

Farmer Goodhugh took in a weekly newspaper,
and every Sunday evening Mary used to
meet her sister at the stile by Ash-pool to
receive it, and look for the intelligence of the
removals of regiments—of Frank Lascelles's
regiment, that is. Mary had never been to church
since her calamity. She used to go and sit
through the long Sunday afternoons on the hill-
top with her baby alone and offer her prayers there
—the coldness of old friends had made her feel
herself unworthy to join the Christian congregation
in Heckerdyke church. After tea Mrs.
Ward walked with her to the stile, and when
Alice and her husband appeared she would join
them, and leave Mary to con her paper with the
baby in her lap until they returned. This was
done, as usual, one beautiful pure Sunday evening,
and Mary had read, through blinding tears,
that Frank was immediately going abroad.
Nobody but herself knew why she was always so
anxious for the paper; no matter what she
ought to have done, she had not ceased loving
him—she thought she never should cease to
love him. When she had seen the fatal words,
she let the paper drop to the ground and laid
her lips to the baby's cheek—sobbing and
crying. But Ash-pool dimpled its dark waters in
vain—she had that now worth loving and living
for, and the shame was not greater than she
could bear.

She had sat thus with her eyes hidden for
some time, when a hand was laid on her
shoulder, and a well-remembered voice said, in
the pleasant old accents, "Mary, Mary!" She
sprang up: she never reproached him; all was
forgotten in the greeting of the woman who
loved. For a moment only—they had been
guilty together—both very young, passionate,
happy, heedless of consequences—but the heavy
sense of sin was between them and its living
evidence in Mary's arms. After the first
impulse both were silent. Frank was the first to
speak:

"They were all in church—I felt that I must
see you once more, Mary—just once before I
go. You got my letters?"

"Yes—I can't bid you send no more, but my
mother does not like it. She would be grieved
to know you were here now. Oh! Frank,
Frank, it would have been better for me if we
had never met!"

"I will many you before I leave England, if
you will, Mary——"

"It's too late, Frank—it's too late; you
shall not waste your life for me. I know it
would be your ruin to marry me, and it could
not help us. We shall stay with my mother—
so give us one kiss, and then go——"

"But when I come home again, Mary——"

"You must not see me any more." Her
voice trembled, and her face drooped as she said
so, and Frank declared that he should not obey
her. "It oughtn't to please me, Frank, to
see you're fond of me as ever, but it does—I'm