"Scarce eats a morsel, and his bed's all awry in the morning, as if he'd done nought but toss about all the night; I think he sleeps none, or very nigh. I never speak to him without he first doth, and that's mighty seldom." Banks hesitated a moment. Then he went forward, and opened the door of the dining-room. "Mr Benden!" he said. The room was in semi-darkness, having no light but that of the moon, and Banks could see only just enough to assure him that something human sat in the large chair at the further end. But no sound answered his appeal. "I am but now arrived from Canterbury." Still no answer came. John Banks went on, in a soft, hushed voice--not in his own words. If the heart of stone could be touched, God's words might do it; if not, still they were the best. "`She shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light upon her, neither any heat. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the Seat hath fed her, and hath led her unto fountains of living water; and God hath wiped away all tears from her eyes.'" He paused a moment, but the dead silence was unbroken. One word more. "The Lord have mercy on thy soul, thou miserable sinner!" Then Banks shut the door softly and went away. There we leave Edward Benden, with the black silence of oblivion over his future life. Whether the Holy Spirit of God ever took the stony heart out of him, and gave him a heart of flesh, God alone knows. For this, in its main features, is a true story, and there is no word to tell us what became of the husband and betrayer of Alice Benden. John Banks went on to the last house he had to visit--the little house by the Second Acre Close. Roger Hall opened the door himself. Banks stepped in, and as the light of the hall lantern fell upon his face, Roger uttered an exclamation of pain and fear. "Jack! Thy face--" "Hath my face spoken to you, Master Hall, afore my tongue could frame so to do? Perchance it is best so. Hold your hand." Roger obeyed mechanically, and Banks laid on the hand held forth the long white lace. "For you," he said, his voice broken by emotion. John Banks' nerves were pretty well worn out by that day's work, as well they might be. "She gave it me for you--at the last. She bade me say it was the last bond she was bound with--except _that_ chain." "Thank God!" were the first words that broke from the brother who loved Alice so dearly. The Christian spoke them; but the next moment the man came uppermost, and an exceeding bitter cry of "O Alice, Alice!" followed the thanksgiving of faith. "It is over," said Banks, in a husky voice. "She `shall never see evil any more.'"