they had her safe in the house-place and the
door locked. They put her into the great chair
that had been her father's, and Alice kindled the
fire, while her mother sat still and soothed the
unhappy girl as well as she might. But Mary
was not in a condition to listen or profit much.
She was sensible that they whom she had most
dreaded to see had taken her to their hearts and
had not reproached her; but she was sensible
also that she was a wicked girl, who had brought
shame and sorrow upon all belonging to her, and
that her own troubles were but just begun.
Miss Timble had made her understand that too
distinctly ever to be effaced from her memory.
Neither Mrs. Ward nor Alice asked a single
question, though what had happened came upon
them like a thunder-clap; for the present they
were only intent on getting Mary quietened and
put to rest. This was not easy of accomplishment:
she rejected food, and declared she would
starve herself to death—she would not live to be
a disgrace to everybody who loved her—if she
were in her grave they would forgive and forget
her by-and-by.

"Hush! Mary darling, don't talk like that,"
said Alice; "if God forgives thee, surely thy
mother an' thy sister can."

"Miss Timble said you couldn't, and that the
best thing I could do would be to die out of the
way."

"Miss Timble has not had the same temptations
fro' the flesh an' the devil as thee, Mary,
or she'd know better than to speak like that. If
thee sins no more thy mother's heart will never
turn again thee; we maun't try to be more just
than God, Alice. Thee has been very wrong,
but thee belongs to us, Mary, if thee had been
ten times as wrong; I ha' no right an' no desire
to cut thee off. Alice, a sup o' hot tea would
do all o' us good. Mary'll drink out o' my
cup."

And when the tea was made, Mary was
prevailed on to put her trembling lips to it and
drink, and then she let herself be taken up-stairs,
undressed, and laid on the bed without any
resistance, only now and then she looked wonderingly
in her mother's face, as if what was passing
bewildered her, and every few minutes a
convulsive fit of sobs and tears shook her slight
frame from head to foot.

Alice busied herself in folding up her sister's
clothes, and when that was done she stood by
the bed foot, looking pityingly at Mary, until
her mother spoke. " Go thee to my bed Alice;
I'll sleep with thy sister to-night, for the less
she gets talking the better." So Alice went
away and shut the door.

But Mary could not sleep, and before the
morning she had confessed herself to her mother
—her love and her weakness, her misery and her
despair. It was not without some entreaty that
Mary would tell the name of him who had
deceived her; but at last, having exacted a promise
of silence from her mother, she did so. Nothing
was likely to astonish Mrs. Ward after the
lamentable discovery of her darling's frailty, and
when she heard the name of the rector's son,
she only sighed and said, " Who could have
thought it!"

Good people are often awfully severe; the
next day Mrs. Ward had this severity to suffer.
She was alone in the house-place, about noon,
Alice and Mary being together up-stairs, when
she saw the erect, solemn figure of the rector
coming over the fields. She did not meet him
reverentially at the gate, as her custom was, but
let him knock at the door, and then silently
admitted him. The rector was not an unkind
man at heart, but he was rather magisterial in
his office; he was more priest than pastor, and
he was neither by nature nor habit, used to
tender dealing with the bruised sinners of his
flock. Mrs. Ward coloured painfully as he
metaphorically put her into the witness-box.

"Mrs. Ward, is this true that I hear about
Mary—her misconduct?" said he, as if he were
preassured of his answer.

"I am not one to defend wrong-doing, Mr.
Lascelles, as you very well know, but Mary's
my child, and I will say this for her—she's more
to be pitied than blamed, and him that deceived
her is the greater sinner o' the two," replied
Mrs. Ward, firmly. " He had better knowledge
o' what's good an' what's bad than she had, an'
it was a very poor thing o' him to ruin her that
loved him. My girl's not vain or mean-minded
like some, an' her undoing would never ha' come
about had she not been ower-persuaded through
the tenderness o' her poor heart."

"Really, Mrs. Ward, you make a confusion
between right and wrong that surprises me! I
thought that you of all people would have kept
your daughter better!" said the rector. Mrs.
Ward might have asked him why he had not
kept his son better, but she refrained herself,
and held her peace. " For a girl so young, and
who had every attention from my wife at the
school, she must have a very depraved disposition
indeed to have done as she has."

"No, Mr. Lascelles, Mary's not depraved,"
returned Mrs. Ward, indignantly; " she has been
led away, and there's no telling what she might
become if we flung her out from among us like
a bad weed. But God made me her mother, and
let who will cast stones an' hard words at her or
me, I shall stand up for her an' shield her as
long as I live."

"Would it not be well to remove her front
the neighbourhood, at least for a time?"
suggested the rector; " such a bad example to the
other young women of the parish——"

"No, sir, I will not send my Mary away
from her mother an' sister," was the resolute
answer; " as for her being a bad example, it
seems to me she'll be a sad warning rather to
her old lake-fellows. The poor thing will be
punished enough by the cold looks o' one an'
another, an' the sorrow o' bringing into the
world a babe without any o' the love an' pride
that helps us women through, without Alice an'
me turning our backs on her. She'll stay wi'
me, sir, and we shall do what we can to
comfort her."

"I am sorry to find you of this way of thinking