this day. Over your body I swear it, my
darling. Oh! my poor murdered darling."

He spoke solemnly, as if binding himself by
a vow; and then did not attempt to kiss her or
to touch her, but departed with one long last
look.

Soon after, old Isott, hearing the front
door close, ran to the window, and saw her
master moving rapidly, but with a strange,
uncertain tread, down the lane towards the
village. Eagerly she watched, and saw him
pass the turn which led to Slowcombe, and
straight on into the village street.

The vicar was sitting mournfully in his study,
puzzled, and grieved, and anxious, listening to
Mr. Smith. The door opened, and as the
stranger started to his feet, following the vicar's
example, it almost seemed to them that they
had raised a spirit from its troubled grave.

Mr. Carter uttered the exclamation:

"Denbigh!"

"You are a magistrate," he said, looking
straight in the vicar's face, and speaking slowly
as if he were repeating a lesson by rote; "that
is why I come to you. Are you looking for
Herbert Clavering? Drag the Abbot's Pool,
and you will find all that remains of him; he
died there on the 14th of January, three years
ago."

"By his own hand?"

"By mine. He came to me that evening,
when I reached my house in the dark, after
my day's work; there he was, standing, waiting,
for there was no one in the house to admit
him. He told me no one knew of his coming.
I should not have known him myself, he
was so worn and altered. I had no evil
intention then—I call God to witness I had
none. He wished to go on at once; but that
could not be—it would have killed her. I
stopped him; I told him she was away—staying
with friends in London. I don't know
what I told him—anything to gain time. I set
food and drink before him; I gave up my own
bed to him; when I had shown him the room,
I went back to my sitting-room down-stairs,
and there—there—I thought of the next day.
I sat and brooded—not for myself—it was
not myself I was thinking of, Heaven knows!
There was a sound at the door. There he
was; he told me he could not rest; that he
had rested very little since all his sufferings.
He begged me to give him something. He
pointed to the surgery door, and asked me if I
had nothing there which could make him sleep.
Then I saw it all before me; not until that
moment; but then, as he stood and looked at
me, I felt that I could kill him—that I could
trample him down out of my way."

For a moment, the knitted brow and working
mouth bore legibly enough the brand of Cain;
but his emotion passed, and he went on in the
same dead manner:

"When he took it, he asked me, 'Are you
sure it will make me sleep?' I answered,
'Quite sure.'  And then—afterwards—when
it was over—I tied a leaden door weight round
his neck and cast him into the Abbot's Pool.
That is all I have to tell."

Some days afterwards, the vicar, riding sorrowfully
home in the twilight from the magistrate's
meeting at Slowcombe, felt his horse start as he
turned in at his own gate, and his own strung-up
nerves tingled somewhat at sight of a dark
figure barely distinguishable from the group of
trees under which it stood. Emerging into
the road, it came nearer, and he saw that it
was his wife, with a shawl thrown over her
head.

"I could not help coming out. How has it
gone?"

"There could be only one result," said the
vicar, sadly, dismounting and leading his horse;
"he is committed to take his trial at the next
assizes."

"Have they dragged the pool?"

"Yes."

"Does the wretched man feel it, or is he
as cast-iron as ever?"

"He says as little as possible, but these last
few days have changed him fearfully. His hair
is white, and he stoops like an old man. Oh
yes, Mary, he does feel it. There is the punishment
of Cain upon him, 'greater than he can
bear.' "

"Of course he will plead guilty?"

"His only wish, is, that his guilt should
meet its full punishment. I half imagine that
that absorbing passion, which has ruled his
concentrated nature, and warped it so fearfully
for evil, is at last turning it to good. I could
almost fancy that when he saw his wife die,
he realised for the first time that there must
be an eternity to set straight the wrongs
and sorrows of time. I think he has a strange
thought that he will expiate his crime, and
meet her again. It is guesswork on my part
—he says nothing. But God's ways are
wonderful."

"Your sympathies are all with him," cried
Mrs. Carter. "Have you no feeling for poor
Herbert Clavering? I have been thinking of
him, only, all this time. Oh, John, whatever
happens to that miserable man, he has
deserved it!"

"Who are we," said her husband, solemnly,
"that we should judge him? We must leave
his body to the justice of man, and his soul
to the mercy of God."

They had reached the door of the parsonage,
and the vicar, relinquishing his horse to the
man who was waiting for it, drew a long
breath, and turned into the drawing-room, as if
he had done with the subject. His wife felt
that he wanted to be cheered after the trying
day, but she could not force her thoughts at
once out of the mournful channel, and she ran
up-stairs for a moment's quiet in her dark
bedroom. She looked across the fields, and saw a
distant light, shining as she knew at Abbot's
Portion in the room of death. She imagined
the scene where Elsie lay, white and still, with
her baby on her bosom, and where old Isott