forgive him. Do you really wish to know
my answer? I told him I thought you
would not: but that he must confess and
make reparation, nevertheless.''

"You thought I should not forgive him?"

"I did: and I think so now, thus far. You
would say and believe that you forgave him:
but, at odd times, for years to come, you would
show him that you had not forgotten it, and
remind him that you had a hold over him. If
not,—if I do you injustice in this, I should——"

"You do not, Sir. I am afraid what you
say is very true."

"Well, just think it over, before he comes to
you. This is the only confession made to me
which it concerns you to hear: but I assure
you, I believe there is not an evil doer in Bleaburn
that is not sick at heart as you are; and
for the same reason. We all have our pains
and troubles; and yours may turn out a great
blessing to you,—or a curse, according as you
persevere or give way."

Neale said to himself as he went home, that
Mr. Kirby had surely been very hard. If a
man hanged for murder was filled with hope
and triumph, and certainty of glory, there must
be some more speedy comfort for him than
the pastor had held out. Yet, in his inmost
heart, he felt that Mr. Kirby was right; and
he could not for the life of him, keep away
from him. He managed to meet him every day.
He could seldom get a word said about the
state of his mind; for Mr. Kirby did not
approve of people's talking of their feelings,—
and especially of those connected with
conscience: but in the deeds which issued from
conscientious feelings, he found cordial assistance
given. And Farmer Neale sometimes
fancied that he could see the time,—far as it
was ahead—when Mr. Kirby and he might
be, as the pastor had himself said,—friends.

The amount of confession and remorse
opened out to the pastor was indeed striking,
and more affecting to him than he chose to
show to anybody but his wife; and not even
to her did he tell many of the facts. The
mushroom resolutions spawned in the heat of
panic were offensive and discouraging to him:
but there were better cases than these. A
man who had taken into wrath with a neighbour
about a gate, and had kept so for years,
and refused to go to church lest he should
meet him there, now discovered that life is
too short for strife, and too precarious to be
wasted in painful quarrels. A little girl
whispered to Mr. Kirby that she had taken a
turnip in his field without leave, and got
permission to weed the great flower-bed without
pay, to make up for it. Simpson and Sally
asked him to marry them; and for poor Sally's
sake, he was right glad to do it. They were
straightforward enough in their declaration
of their reasons. Simpson thought nobody's
life was worth a halfpenny now, and he did
not wish to be taken in his sins: while Sally
said it would be worse still if the innocent
baby was taken for its parents' sin. They
had to hear the publication of banns, at a
time when other people were thinking of
anything but marriage; and, when the now
disused church was unlocked to admit them to
the altar,—just themselves and the clerk,—
it was very dreary; but they immediately
after felt the safer and better for it. Sally
thought the Good Lady would have gone to
church with her, if she had been here; and
she wished she could let her know that
Simpson had fulfilled his promise at last.
Other people besides Sally wished they could
let the Good Lady know how they were going
on;—how frost came at last, in January,
and stopped the fever;—how families who
had lived crowded together now spread
themselves into the empty houses; and how
there was so much room that the worst
cottages were left uninhabited, or were already
in course of demolition, to make airy spaces,
or afford sites for better dwellings; and how
it was now certain that above two-thirds of the
people of Bleaburn had perished in the fever,
or by decline, after it. But they did not think
of getting anybody who could write to tell all
this to the Good Lady: nor did it occur to
them that she might possibly know it all.
The men and boys collected pretty spars for
her; and the women and girls knitted gloves
and comforters, and made pincushions for her,
in the faith that they should some day see her
again. Meanwhile, they talked of her every
day.

CHAPTER IX, AND LAST.

It was a fine spring day when the Good
Lady re-appeared at Bleaburn. There she
was, perfectly well, and glad to see health on
so many of the faces about her. Some were
absent whom she had left walking about in
the strength of their prime; but others whom
she had last seen lying helpless, like living
skeletons, were now on their feet, with a light
in their eyes, and some little tinge of colour
in their cheeks. There were sad spectacles to
be seen of premature decrepitude, of dreadful
sores, of deafness, of lameness, left by the
fever. There were enough of these to have
saddened the heart of any stranger entering
Bleaburn for the first time, but to Mary, the
impression was that of a place risen from the
dead. There was much grass in the churchyard,
and none in the streets: the windows
of the cottages were standing wide, letting it
been seen that the rooms were white-washed
within. There was an indescribable air of
freshness and brightness about the whole
place, which made her feel and say that she
hardly thought the fever could harbour there
again. As she turned into the lane leading
to her aunt's, the sound of the hammer, and
the chipping of stone were heard; and some
workmen whom she did not know, turned
from their work of planing boards, to see
why a crowd could be coming round the
corner. These were workmen from O——,
building Neale's new cottages, in capital
style. And, for a moment, two young ladies