"Yes, she thinks she looks angelic and
spiritual in a pew," said Mrs. Tilney, rising
up suddenly, and getting into a fury. "I'll
take care she shan't come with us; she must
go and act her pious airs in some other place.
I'll just give her my mind.'' And Mrs. Tilney
went up at once for this charitable and
Christian purpose.

Having performed this Sunday evening's
office, the ladies set forth in a sort of procession
for the nearest place of worship. Where,
also, Mr. McKerchier was to be found, of whom
there were hopes that he would return home in
the family procession.

This glimpse of the Tilney interior shows
that in London, too, as well as in the cathedral
town, they adhered to their old rule of
life, thinking that spiritual advancement might
be advantageously combined with the procuring
of the other blessings of this life. Mrs. Tilney
having gone up and done battle with great
satisfaction with her victim, came down in great
splendour, and set off in procession with her
two daughters, going to what might be called
"McKerchier Evening Service."  After all,
some excuse may be made for this little acerbity.
The world had gone very rudely and roughly
with them; life had, indeed, been only a
succession of dreary failures.

Mr. Tillotson soon found out the lane and the
walled-in garden with the green wooden gate.
It was wide open now, for the ladies, a little
careless or abstracted, had forgotten to close it.
Wide open, too, was the hall door and the windows,
and the house had a sort of uninhabited
air. Faint sounds of bells in the distance wafting
towards him, hinted to him that all, of course,
were out at devotion. Some way these bells
brought back to him another Sunday down at
the cathedral, and the soft image of St. Cecilia,
as he recollected her, kneeling and praying.
It was with a strange flutter that he stood there
looking into the little garden, and something
then impelled him to go in and ask about the
family, especially as he might now do so with,
all security, for he seemed to see through and
through the house.

He walked in softly; his footsteps were not
heard. He pulled at a rusted old bell, which
the maids of honour, perhaps, had often pulled
at; but it came out nearly half a foot before he
could make it sound. After a long interval, an
untidy maid, who had succeeded in getting on
some part of her dress as she came up the back
stairs, and had thus been obliged to defer
polishing her face till she was in the presence of
the stranger, made her appearance. They were
all away at church, but would be back in half an
hour or so, with the gentlemen.

"All out?"

"Yes."

And, with a sigh, Mr. Tillotson half took out
his card, but put it back again, in defiance of
warm expostulation; for the maid had found
that in such cases she was exposed to much                                                        persecution for misapprehending, or totally
forgetting, or, in certain cases, not taking
care to secure the names of "gentlemen who
called."

He walked away, sadly; and as he got to the
green gate, looked back once more at the house.
The windows, it has been said, were all open
back and front, and now, in the parlour, he saw
what he had not noticed before—a white figure
on her knees. It seemed like a cloud. The
maid had gone down again. He stopped, and,
with a strange flutter, walked softly back;
something seemed to draw him in. He could not
see face or outline very distinctly, but a strange
spell was on him, and seemed to reveal all.
Now he heard, for his hearing was quick at the
same moment, something like sounds of
weeping; and, without pausing to think, he entered
the hall, opened the door softly, and there saw
Ada Millwood on her knees, with her face down
on a chair, weeping or praying.

"0," she said, for she did not look up,
"let me go. I must go anywhere—no matter
where. I can bear it no longer!"

He did not answer. Then she looked up,
started to her feet, and stood gazing at him.
Then he saw a strange change in her. Her face
had grown very pale and a little thin, her eyes
yet softer, traces of severe sickness and wearing
anxiety, and yet with it all a greater beauty
and spirituality.

"O, Miss Millwood," he said, sadly, and
advancing to her, "what does all this mean?"

At this vision, not seen now for so long, the
coldness and blankness in Mr. Tillotson's heart
thawed away in a moment, and that stern resolution
with which, as he fancied, he had encrusted
his heart finally and for ever, crumbled through
and gave way.

"I understand," he went on. "I have been
told. I know what all this means. O, forgive
me; but it seems as though I had been sent
here specially to hear what you are praying for,
and to aid you."

She was now recovered from her confusion,
and put out her hand. She spoke in the old
soft voice, which seemed to play on his very
nerves with a sort of music almost divine.
Every second it was drawing him away from the
old icy regions.

"Do not mind me," she said, with a soft
smile. "Women are not trained to suffer. I
have been ill, very ill, and have got querulous.
When I am quite restored to my old strength, I
shall be able to go in my old way again."

He shook his head, and spoke almost passionately.

"But you should not. This eternal self-sacrifice
is not required. We are not told to go on
day after day, month after month, year after
year, to consign ourselves to a living death,
suffering for those who care not how we suffer.
No, no, dear Miss Millwood, let your friends—
let me come to aid you. Let this little ray of
light fall upon my cold, blank existence, grown
even more hopeless since I saw you, since that
night when it was my happiness to be of some
poor comfort. Though I should not mention
it ——"