“Well: I think this is all we can do to-day,” said Mr. Kirby, as they issued from the seventh cottage. “The worst of it is, the workmen from O—— will not come,—I am afraid no builder will come, even to make an estimate—till we are declared free of fever. But there is a good deal that your own people can do.” “They can knock on a few slates before dark, Sir; and those windows can be mended to-day. I trust, Mr. Kirby, you will give me encouragement; and not be harder than you can help.” “Why, Neale; the thing is this. You do not hold your doom from my hand; and you ought not to hang upon my words. You come to me to tell me what you feel, and to ask what I think. All I can do is to be honest with you, and (as indeed I am) sorry for you. Time must do the rest. If you are now acting well from fear of the fever only, time will show you how worthless is the effort; for you will break off as soon as the fright has passed away. If you really mean to do justly and love mercy, through good and bad fortune, time will prove you there, too: and then you will see whether I am hard, or whether we are to be friends. This is my view of the matter.” Neale touched his hat, and was slowly going away, when Mr. Kirby followed him, to say one thing more. “It may throw light to yourself, on your own state of mind, to tell you that it is quite a usual one among people who have deeply sinned, when any thing happens to terrify them. Histories of earthquakes and plagues tell of people thinking and feeling as you do to-day. I dare say you think nobody ever felt the same before; but you are not the only one in Bleaburn.” “Indeed, Sir!” exclaimed Neale, exceedingly struck. “Far from it. A person who has often robbed your poultry-yard, and taken your duck eggs, thought that I was preaching at him, last Sunday; though I knew nothing about it. He wished to make reparation; and he asked me if I thought you would forgive him. Do you really wish to know my answer? I told him I thought you would not: but that he must confess and make reparation, nevertheless.” “You thought I should not forgive him?” “I did: and I think so now, thus far. You would say and believe that you forgave him: but, at odd times, for years to come, you would show him that you had not forgotten it, and remind him that you had a hold over him. If not,—if I do you injustice in this, I should——” “You do not, Sir. I am afraid what you say is very true.” “Well, just think it over, before he comes to you. This is the only confession made to me which it concerns you to hear: but I assure you, I believe there is not an evil doer in Bleaburn that is not sick at heart as you are; and for the same reason. We all have our pains and troubles; and yours may turn out a great blessing to you,—or a curse, according as you persevere or give way.”