silence and indecision, took him to their
hearts, with something of the protecting
kindness which they would have shown to a
woman. And the renewal of this kindliness,
after the lapse of years, and an interval of
so much change, overpowered him more than
any roughness or expression of disapproval
could have done.

"I'm afraid we've done too much," said
Mr. Bell. " You're suffering now from
having lived so long in that Milton air."

"I am tired," said Mr. Hale. " But it is
not Milton air. I'm fifty-five years of age,
and that little fact of itself accounts for any
loss of strength."

"Nonsense! I'm upwards of sixty, and
feel no loss of strength, either bodily or
mental. Don't let me hear you talking so.
Fifty-five! why, you're quite a young man."

Mr. Hale shook his head. "These last
few years! " said he. But after a minute's
pause, he raised himself from his half recumbent
position, in one of Mr. Bell's luxurious
easy-chairs, and said with a kind of
trembling earnestness:

"Bell! you're not to think, that if I could
have foreseen all that would come of my
change of opinion, and my resignation of
my living—no! not even if I could have
known how she would have suffered,—that I
would undo it—the act of open
acknowledgment that I no longer held the same faith
as the church in which I was a priest. As I
think now, even if I could have foreseen that
cruellest martyrdom of suffering, through the
sufferings of one whom I loved, I would have
done just the same as far as that step
of openly leaving the church went. I
might have done differently, and acted more
wisely, in all that I subsequently did for my
family. But I don't think God endued me
with over-much wisdom or strength," he
added, falling back into his old position.

Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously
before answering. Then he said:

"He gave you strength to do what your
conscience told you was right; and I don't
see that we need any higher or holier strength
than that; or wisdom either. I know I have
not that much; and yet men set me down in
their fool's books as a wise man; an
independent character; strong-minded, and all
that cant. The veriest idiot who obeys his
own simple law of right, if it be but in wiping
his shoes on a door-mat, is wiser and stronger
than I. But what gulls men are!"

There was a pause. Mr. Hale spoke first,
in continuation of his thought:

"About Margaret."

"Well! about Margaret. What then?"

"If I die——"

"Nonsense!"

"What will become of her—I often think?
I suppose the Lennoxes will ask her to live
with them. I try to think they will. Her
aunt Shaw loved her well in her own quiet
way; but she forgets to love the absent."

"A very common fault. What sort of
people are the Lennoxes?"

"He, handsome fluent and agreeable.
Edith, a sweet little spoiled beauty.
Margaret loves her with all her heart, and
Edith with as much of her heart as she can
spare."

"Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours
has got pretty nearly all my heart. I told
you that before. Of course, as your daughter,
as my god-daughter, I took great interest in
her before I saw her the last time. But this
visit that I paid to you at Milton made me her
slave. I went, a willing old victim, following
the car of the conqueror. For, indeed, she looks
as grand and serene as one who has struggled,
and may be struggling, and yet has the
victory secure in sight. Yes, in spite of all
her present anxieties, that was the look on
her face. And so, all I have is at her service,
if she needs it; and will be her's, whether
she will or no, when I die. Moreover, I
myself, will be her preux chevalier, sixty and
gouty though I be. Seriously, old friend,
your daughter shall be my principal charge in
life, and all the help that either my wit or my
wisdom or my willing heart can give shall be
her's. I don't choose her out as a subject for
fretting. Something, I know of old, you must
have to worry yourself about, or you wouldn't
be happy. But you're going to outlive
me by many a long year. You spare, thin
men are always tempting and always cheating
Death! It's the stout, florid fellows
like me, that always go off first."

If Mr. Bell had had a prophetic eye he
might have seen the torch all but inverted,
and the angel with the grave and
composed face standing very nigh, beckoning
to his friend. That night Mr. Hale laid
his head down on the pillow on which
it never more should stir with life. The
servant who entered his room in the morning,
received no answer to his speech;
drew near the bed, and saw the calm,
beautiful face lying white and cold under the
ineffaceable seal of death. The attitude was
exquisitely easy; there had been no pain—
no struggle. The action of the heart must
have ceased as he lay down.

Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock; and
only recovered when the time came for being
angry at every suggestion of his man's.

"A coroner's inquest? Pooh. You don't
think I poisoned him! Dr. Forbes says it
is just the natural end of a heart complaint.
Poor old Hale! You wore out that tender heart
of yours before its time. Poor old friend!
how he talked of his—— Wallis pack up a
carpet-bag for me in five minutes. Here
have I been talking. Pack it up I say. I
must go to Milton by the next train."

The bag was packed, the cab ordered, the
railway reached, in twenty minutes from the
moment of this decision. The London train
whizzed by, drew back some yards, and in
Mr. Bell was hurried by the impatient guard.