that you put it for a moment in competition with your son's happiness?"

"Ah! if it was really for his happiness!  If I thought that — if I could be sure of it!  Look you here, sir. Perhaps you think I am a selfish old woman who wants no belle fille to interfere with her authority? You are quite wrong. I am ready to make my paquet, and go board in a convent, and leave this clear for the wife of my son. But I will have that his wife shall be sans reproche, do you understand?"

The young man looked at her almost sternly for a moment. Then he said very gravely: "Who is without reproach in the eyes of God? Do you think your son is?  Do you remember what his past has been— is there not much to be forgiven him?  God judges not as man judges. The world's code is not His. Do you remember who it was who said, when an unfaithful wife was brought before him, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her'?  Shall
that divine lesson of charity be thrown away upon us, Mrs. Cartaret? If God were extreme to mark what has been amiss in our lives, which of us would escape? In this case, consider, has not the good she has done been far greater than the evil?  Will you cast a stone — the stone that malicious people have put into your hand— at a girl who has wrought this blessed change in your son's life?  She has been, and is, the good angel standing in his path, and turning him aside from destruction. Oh! Mrs. Cartaret, pause before it be too late.  If you now withhold your consent, you are casting a stone at her which you will bitterly repent hereafter!"

He spoke with deep feeling, and the old lady's tears fell fast.

"Do you really believe that this change in Lowndes is all her doing? Ah! it is not possible; a girl like that to influence a man like Lowndes. No; it is incredible."

Miles looked at his watch.

"I have but five minutes more, Mrs. Cartaret. Excuse me for a moment, if I speak of myself. Do you know why I am come here to-day? Can you guess what feeling is strong enough to bring me from London simply for the purpose of having this conversation with you?  It is the result of a struggle with myself, and of a fervent prayer that she whom I have loved better than anything on earth — yet feeling that my love was hopeless — for more than four years, might be made happy.  After this avowal, Mrs. Cartaret (an avowal which would be no news to your son), perhaps you will not expect me to doubt Miss Pomeroy's power. If it be so deep and lasting over a man whom she has never loved, what may it not be, under God's blessing, over your son? She has done much, she will do more, for she does love him. I have said all I can say. My small part is played. I take my leave, feeling sure, Mrs. Cartaret, that you will not wither the happiness of two young lives."

"Stay! Hollà, Dapper! Who is there?  Bring some wine; you cannot go without a glass, sir. Will you not stay and see my son? He will be home directly."

"Thank you; I should miss the train; and Mr. Cartaret and I are not acquainted; he would not care to see me. My visit was to you alone, Mrs. Cartaret. Good-bye."

"You are a good man, a very good man.  If all the curés were like you I would go to church oftener. I wish you would stay— I wish you would stay and see Lowndes.  But, sir, you have eased my mind. I seem to see my way cleared. I did not know whom to believe, what to determine. After what you have said, I suppose there is no doubt, eh?  I must yield; I must not throw stones. Well, my heart seems lighter, though my old eyes are full of tears. God bless you!  You are a good man."

Lowndes, in his dog-cart, passed Miles close to the station. The curate recognised the young squire, of course, and walked straight on.  A Frenchman, after rendering another a signal service, would probably have waived ceremony, and stopped to introduce himself; but Miles was an Englishman all over. Besides, he had no desire to speak to Lowndes; it would have been a painful effort to him. On the contrary, he had just done what he conceived to be his duty, and there was an end of it. Cartaret, on his side, stared, and wondered whether his eyes or his memory deceived him. He had a distinct recollection of Miles's face and figure. This could not be he, for what could he possibly be doing at Beckworth?  But was there ever such a likeness?  And so they passed each other, and went each his way, one to the hard crusts of life, the other to its cakes and ale.

Mrs. Cartaret got up as her son approached, stood on tiptoe, and fell upon his neck. There were the traces of recent tears on her cheeks, and, through her smiles, it was easy to see that she was in a state of considerable excitement. Lowndes