“I know that now. And I am very glad I did not know it till I was better able to bear the disappointment. But it is only for what I heard that I mean now to acknowledge my obligation. Tell me, Miss Oldcastle,—what is the most precious gift one person can give another?” She hesitated; and I, fearing to embarrass her, answered for her. “It must be something imperishable,—something which in its own nature IS. If instead of a gem, or even of a flower, we could cast the gift of a lovely thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving, as the angels, I suppose, must give. But you did more and better for me than that. I had been troubled all the morning; and you made me know that my Redeemer liveth. I did not know you were playing, mind, though I felt a difference. You gave me more trust in God; and what other gift so great could one give? I think that last impression, just as I was taken ill, must have helped me through my illness. Often when I was most oppressed, ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth’ would rise up in the troubled air of my mind, and sung by a voice which, though I never heard you sing, I never questioned to be yours.” She turned her face towards me: those sea-blue eyes were full of tears. “I was troubled myself,” she said, with a faltering voice, “when I sang—I mean played—that. I am so glad it did somebody good! I fear it did not do me much.—I will sing it to you now, if you like.” And she rose to get the music. But that instant Judy, who, I then found, had left the room, bounded into it, with the exclamation,— “Auntie, auntie! here’s grannie!” Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embarrassed, as if I had been caught in something underhand. “Is she come in?” asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to speak with indifference. “She is just at the door,—must be getting out of the fly now. What SHALL we do?” “What DO you mean, Judy?” said her aunt. “Well you know, auntie, as well as I do, that grannie will look as black as a thunder-cloud to find Mr Walton here; and if she doesn’t speak as loud, it will only be because she can’t. _I_ don’t care for myself, but you know on whose head the storm will fall. Do, dear Mr Walton, come down the back-stair. Then she won’t be a bit the wiser. I’ll manage it all.” Here was a dilemma for me; either to bring suffering on her, to save whom I would have borne any pain, or to creep out of the house as if I were and ought to be ashamed of myself. I believe that had I been in any other relation to my fellows, I would have resolved at once to lay myself open to the peculiarly unpleasant reproach of sneaking out of the house, rather than that she should innocently suffer for my being innocently there. But I was a clergyman; and I felt, more than I had ever felt before, that therefore I could not risk ever the appearance of what was mean. Miss Oldcastle, however, did not leave it to me to settle the matter. All that I have just written had but flashed through my mind when she said:—