He arose—I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his wife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so fresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned my “good night,” with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed from him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further residence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would be written of my generous but business devoted friend, “Ephraim is joined to his idols—let him alone!” ----- [1] The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of human nature. II.—THE PEST HOUSE. There was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at the breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same thing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot’s manner seemed to say, “I am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.” But I was determined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot’s doing his duty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises—or, failing in that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if I hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me; for a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is not only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events, however, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the pain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John was at the door, and desired to see me. I rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence—a danger which did not once occur to me; for there are few—very few—so base and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could not look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and, merely muttering that Bessie was “very bad,” and _wanted me_, turned and strode hastily away.