was slung her bonnet: he was falling, and
she was struggling to save him, but held
back by some invisible powerful hand. He
was dead. And yet, with a shifting of the
scene, she was once more in the Harley Street
drawing-room, talking to him as of old,
and still with a consciousness all the time
that she had seen him killed by that terrible
fall.

Miserable, unresting night! Ill preparation
for the coming day! She awoke with a
start, unrefreshed, and conscious of some
reality worse even than her feverish dreams.
It all came back upon her; not merely the
sorrow, but the terrible discord in the
sorrow. Where, to what distance apart, had
her father wandered, led by doubts which
were to her temptations of the Evil One?
She longed to ask, and yet would not have
heard for all the world.

The fine crisp morning made her mother
feel particularly well and happy at breakfast-
time. She talked on, planning village
kindnesses, unheeding the silence of her husband
and the monosyllabic answers of Margaret.
Before the things were cleared away, Mr.
Hale got up; he leaned one hand on the
table, as if to support himself:

"I shall not be at home till evening. I am
going to Bracy Common, and will ask Farmer
Dobson to give me something for dinner. I
shall be back to tea at seven."

He did not look at either of them, but
Margaret knew what he meant. By seven
the announcement must be made to her
mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed
making it till half-past six, but Margaret was
of different stuff. She could not bear the
impending weight on her mind all the day
long: better get the worst over; the day
would be too short to comfort her mother.
But while she stood by the window, thinking
how to begin, and waiting for the servant to
have left the room, her mother had gone
upstairs to put on her things to go to the school.
She came down ready equipped, in a brisker
mood than usual.

"Mother, come round the garden with me
this morning; just one turn," said Margaret,
putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.

They passed through the open window.
Mrs. Hale spoke—said something—Margaret
could not tell what. Her eye caught on a
bee entering a deep-belled flower: when
that bee flew forth with his spoil she
would begin—that should be the sign. Out
he came.

"Mamma! Papa is going to leave
Helstone! " she blurted forth. " He is going
to leave the Church, and live in Milton-
Northern." There were the three hard facts,
hardly spoken.

"What makes you say so? " asked Mrs.
Hale, in a surprised incredulous voice. " Who
has been telling you such nonsense?"

"Papa himself," said Margaret, longing to
say something gentle and consoling, but
literally not knowing how. They were close to
a garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down, and
began to cry.

"I don't understand you," she said. " Either
you have made some great mistake, or I
don't quite understand you."

"No, mother, I have made no mistake.
Papa has written to the bishop, saying that
he has such doubts that he cannot conscientiously
remain a priest of the Church of
England, and that he must give up Helstone.
He has also consulted Mr. Bell, Frederick's
godfather, you know, mamma; and it is
arranged that we go to live in Milton-
Northern." Mrs. Hale looked up in Margaret's
face all the time she was speaking these
words: the shadow on her countenance told
that she, at least, believed in the truth of what
she said.

"I don't think it can be true," said Mrs.
Hale, at length. " He would surely have told
me before it came to this."

It came strongly upon Margaret's mind
that her mother ought to have been told:
that whatever her faults of discontent and
repining might have been, it was an error in
her father to have left her to learn his change
of opinion, and his approaching change of
life from her better-informed child.
Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her
unresisting head on her breast, bending her
own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch
her face.

"Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid
of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely—
you know you are not strong, and there must
have been such terrible suspense to go
through."

"When did he tell you, Margaret?"

"Yesterday, only yesterday," replied
Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted
the inquiry. "Poor papa,"—trying to divert
her mother's thoughts into compassionate
sympathy for all her father had gone through.
Mrs. Hale raised her head.

"What does he mean by having doubts?"
she asked. " Surely, he does not mean that
he thinks differently—that he knows better
than the Church."

Margaret shook her head, and the tears
came into her eyes, as her mother touched
the bare nerve of her own regret.

"Can't the bishop set him right? " asked
Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.

  "I'm afraid not," said Margaret. " But
I did not ask. I could not bear to hear
what he might answer. It is all settled
at any rate. He is going to leave
Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he
did not say he had sent in his deed of
resignation."

"In a fortnight! " exclaimed Mrs. Hale.
"I do think this is very strange—not at all
right. I call it very unfeeling " said she,
beginning to take relief in tears. " He has
doubts, you say, and gives up his living, and
all without consulting me. I dare say if he