For letters were unusual events with John. If this referred to the missionary service, he would have to read it in public next Sunday, and he was much pleased and astonished that it should have been sent to him. He felt a certain importance in the event, and was anxious to share his little triumph with his "old dear." Joan did not quite appreciate his consideration. She had her hands in the dough, and her thoughts were upon the pipeclaying which she was going to give to the flagged floor of her cottage. She had hoped men-folks with their big boots would keep away until her work was dry and snow-white. "Here be a letter from Exeter, Joan, to me. 'Twill be about the missionary service. I thought you would like to know, my dear." "_Hum-m-m!_" answered Joan. "I could have done without the news, John, till the bread was baked and the floor was whitened." She had her back to John, but, as he did not speak again, she turned her face over her shoulder and looked at him. The next moment she was at his side. "What is it, John? John Penelles, speak to me." John stood on the hearth with his left arm outstretched and holding an open letter. His eyes were fixed on it. His face had the rigid, stubborn look of a man who on the very point of unconsciousness arrests his soul by a peremptory act of will. He stood erect, stiff, speechless, with the miserable slip of white paper at the end of his outstretched arm. Joan gently forced him back into his chair; she untied his many neckcloths; she bared his broad, hairy chest; she brought him water to drink; and at length her tears and entreaties melted the stone-like rigour; his head fell forward, his eyes closed, his hand unclasped, and the letter fell to the floor. It did not interest Joan; nothing on earth was of interest to her while her husband was in that horror of stubborn suffering. "John," she whispered, with her face against his face--"John! My John! My good heart, be yourself and tell Joan what is the matter. Is it sickness of your body, John? Is it trouble of your mind, John? Be a man, and speak to God and to me. God is our refuge and our strength--think o' that. A very present help in trouble--present, not a long way off, John, not in heaven; but here in your heart and on your hearth. Oh, John! John! do speak to me." "To be sure, Joan! The letter, dear; read it--read it aloud--I may be mistaken--it isn't possible, I'm sure. God help us both!" Joan lifted the letter and read aloud the words written so hastily in a few moments of time, but which brought to two loving hearts years of anxious sorrow: "'DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:--I have just been married to Roland Tresham, and we are on our way to London. I love Roland so much, I hope you will forgive me. I will write more from London. Your loving child, "'DENAS TRESHAM.'" "Oh, Joan, my dear! My heart be broken! My heart be broken! My heart be broken!"