“My journey is just done, sir,” said the Duchess, with a swift glance from the face of her husband to that of the clergyman. “The call home has come at last. Will you speak some word of peace to me before I go? Let me hear the message that my Lord sends to me. Give me some promise of His to lead me on my way.” The voice was very low, but clearly audible in the deep stillness. Poor Mr. Tremodart twisted his great hands together and felt as though an angel from heaven had asked counsel of him. “O my dear lady!” he burst out at last, “you know those promises far better than I do. You have no need of any poor words of mine. Your life has ever been a blameless one. It is you who should teach me. God knows I need it. But you, if you are going before His judgment throne, can scarcely have a sin upon your soul. I stand mute in presence of a holiness greater than any I ever have known.” The eyes of the dying woman were fixed upon Mr. Tremodart’s face with an expression he scarce understood. “Am I to go into the presence of my God clad in the robe of my own righteousness?” she asked with a faint smile. “O my dear lady, how better could you go?” questioned the confused and embarrassed clergyman. “Surely if ever there were a saint upon earth it is yourself. Everybody in the place knows it. What can I say to you that you do not already know?” Still the same searching inexplicable gaze fixed upon his face--tender, pitying, regretful. Never had the Rev. Job Tremodart felt so utterly unworthy of his office and calling as at that moment. He had always recognised the fact that he had “never been cut out for a parson,” as he had phrased it. He had allowed himself to be ordained and presented with a living in deference to his father’s wishes and the pressure of circumstances, and he had striven after his own light to do his duty amongst his illiterate and semi-savage flock. On the whole he had succeeded fairly well to his satisfaction, and was as good a clergyman as many of his brethren around. But somehow, beside the dying bed of the Duchess of Penarvon, he stood shamed and silent, having no word to speak to her save to remind her of her own saint-like life and her own righteousness. Even he felt a faint qualm as he spoke those words, yet their incongruity hardly struck him in its full force. But it was an immense relief when a slight stir without was followed by the entrance of another figure into the room, and he could step back and motion the new-comer to take his place beside the bed. Even the girl raised her head now and looked round with eyes dark-rimmed and dim with weeping. She did not otherwise move, but she no longer kept her face hidden; she turned it towards her mother with a hungry intensity of gaze that was infinitely pathetic.