“Mrs. Mills,” said Mary, “the time for all that is over; I am here to protect my cousin. Whatever your mistress may do or say, I am his nearest relation here. We can take care of Mr. Prescott without you; he shall neither be shut up nor coerced again. Doctor, he knows us all; he only wants his child; he is as gentle as an infant. Why should he be shut up and banished from the light of day?” “There is no reason at all,” young Darrell said. “I am ashamed of my part in it. It was I who opened the door to him to-night; I hoped that this would happen which has happened. I don’t know if you will ever believe that I acted at first in good faith. There is no reason, no reason at all, for keeping him confined now.” John Prescott sat holding his child with one arm round her, looking out solemnly upon the group about him. There was something in the aspect of his large immovable eyes, showing that he saw imperfectly if at all, which strangely heightened the effect of the scene. He put out his other arm as if feeling for some one. “Mary, Mary! Wasn’t Mary here?” She came up to him and took his hand. “Yes, John, I am here, I am here: nobody shall touch you. They daren’t touch you while I am here.” It was the second time in twenty-four hours that she had brought peace and security by these words--she, a helpless woman, the poor parson’s wife, never of much account in the world--and yet they were true! But probably John Prescott did not make any question to himself how that was, or even understand clearly what she was doing for him. He grasped her hand, making no reply to what she said. “Mary,” he said slowly, “I want your advice.” “Yes, John.” “Mutht a man do all his wife says? She’s clever, and I’m not. I never was one of the clever fellowths. She’s gone away, and I promithed-- But, Mary, I want my little girl.” “Yes, John, and you shall have her. You shall not be parted again,” Mary cried with tears. “I want my little girl. They say I frightened thome one that wasn’t mine; I ask her pardon, I’m sure. I never meant to frighten any one; all I want ith my little girl.” “Father, here I am!” cried little Rhoda, one arm clasping his, one uplifted in defence. “And, Cousin John, oh! I love you too: I wasn’t frightened,” Hetty cried. The sound of this prodigious falsehood, told with all the conviction of the heart, brought a note of something like laughter into the room, when this scene ended, the strange little drama, which, but for Hetty’s fright and Mary’s arrival, might have been a tragedy, and ended in a very different way.