Greta, troubled with the glimmerings of a new hope, rested her forehead against the cool stonework of the window. The idea took shape at last; she turned to the preacher with a motherly, protecting air. "Gabriel, suppose you have kil--suppose some one did fall over the quarry-edge--haven't you saved two lives to-night? If you had not come, I should never have known the danger, and--Gabriel, isn't it worth something to have saved my life?" For a moment the preacher clutched at this specious solace. He had paid two human lives for the one he had taken--would not the Almighty think that a fair exchange? But he lost the hope. "There's no expiation, save one. Come away, Greta, and get to bed," he said doggedly. As they re-crossed the bridge, Gabriel glanced instinctively towards the swirling water on their left. What gleams of light were abroad caught the tips of the wavelets, the slimy paddles of the wheel. He shivered as he watched; his mind flew back to that other stretch of water, where his friend was lying. The din and hurry of the mill-wheel seemed cheery by contrast with the silence of the quarry. They passed through the door that opened into the miller's room. Greta set down her candle on the washing-stand. "You want to get rid of me. What are you going to do, Gabriel?" "Never mind, lass, never mind." She took fright at his wildness of look; she feared he would do himself an injury if left alone. Forgetful of all else, she just held open her arms, and-- "Gabriel," she said softly, "stay with me. I can't bear to let you go." Her cheeks grew red with shame when she had got half way through with the words; but what did anything--anything--matter, so only she could keep Gabriel from harm? So long she had waited for him; was she to lose him in the first flush of possession? Whatever there was of passion in the preacher--and he was full of it, to the finger-tips--leaped to the front. He trembled from head to foot; those soft arms seemed to draw him beyond all resistance. With a cry he stepped towards her--then stopped. The habit of a lifetime, in this supreme moment, was not minded to stand idly by, taking no part in the struggle; were his sins against God so slight that he dared add one more to their number? He moaned in the agony of repression. And down the girl's crimsoned cheeks ran tears of helplessness. The candle went out and left them in darkness. "Greta," said the preacher at last, "his wife will be waiting up for him." The quiet voice, the commonplace words, sounded odd after the stress that had preceded them. "Whose wife?" she whispered, not daring to acknowledge the certain answer. "Griff's. My way lies plain, lass; I must go and tell her." He went out to the stair-head; Greta followed him into the lamplight.