“Ah, sir, he has been dead these ten years, and there is a young man in his place who could not know anything about this,” the sexton replied, with a look of pity at the handsome young stranger who was so painfully agitated. “And there were no other witnesses—you were the only one who saw and heard this?” “Yes, sir, I was the only one as far as I know; but,” with sudden thought, “I’ve heard that the old rector never went to bed at night without first writing down everything that had happened during the day, and perhaps Miss Isabel—that’s the rector’s daughter, sir, as came with you hither, bless her kind heart!—perhaps she could tell you something more about it.” “Thank you. What you have told me to-night is of the most vital importance, as you have doubtless judged by my unavoidable excitement. If what you say can be proved, it will repair one of the greatest wrongs ever committed upon this earth,” Marion’s son replied, very gravely. “I feared it—I feared it at the time—may God forgive me for ever betraying my trust,” murmured the old man, brokenly. “But you atoned for it—you were tempted as all are liable to be tempted, and I hope and trust that your repentance may have been the means of saving a proud name from dishonor.” “Miss Isabel can tell you if any one can,” answered the sexton. “I will wait, then, until she comes from the cottage, and seek an interview with her,” returned the youth; and, though his stock of money was none too large, he generously dropped a golden guinea into the old man’s hand, and then, too deeply moved to remain quiet, he paced back and forth beneath the trees, while waiting for the rector’s daughter to appear. CHAPTER XXIV THE RECTOR’S DIARY The sweet-faced Miss Isabel did not try his patience long. She had been deeply interested in the young and handsome stranger, wondering who he was, and whence he came, as well as why he should seek their quiet little chapel, and then the old sexton. She had heard his last words to the old man, and knew that he was desirous of speaking with her. She at once arose, and, as soon as she came forth from the cottage, he immediately approached her. “Pardon,” he said, courteously, lifting his hat, “but may I crave a little conversation with you?” “Certainly,” she answered, with a sweet graciousness that made him think of his mother. He then stated something of his object in coming there, and also the startling revelation of the sexton, as well as what he had said regarding the rector’s diary, and begged her, if it was in her power, to let him know the truth of the matter. Her face grew sad and full of pity as she listened to him, and realized something of the wrong that had been suffered for so many years, and when he had finished she said simply: “Yes, I can give you comfort. Come with me.”