I broke down in my hesitating suggestion. Ben was years older than I, miles taller and broader, and it sounded like the mouse attempting to help the lion. "Yes, I will go to him," he said slowly. "It is the only plan. And--and you think there's no fear that Herbert Tanerton will get talking to others?" "I'm sure there's none. He is indoors now, dining with us. I am sure you are quite safe in all respects. The thing is buried in the past, and even its remembrance will pass away. The old postman, Lee, thinks it was Cotton; the Squire persuaded him into the belief at the time. Where _is_ Cotton?" "Where all such rogues deserve to be--transported. But for him and his friends I should never have done much that's wrong. Thank you for the encouragement you give me." He half put out his hand to endorse the thanks, and drew it back again; but I put mine freely into his. Ben Rymer _was_ Ben Rymer, and no favourite of mine to boot; but when a man has been down and is trying to get up again, he deserves respect and sympathy. "I was about here all last evening, hoping to get sight of you," he remarked, as he went out at the gate. "I never saw such light nights in all my life as these few last have been, what with the moon and the snow. Good-night, Mr. Johnny. By the way, though, where does the curate live?" "At Mrs. Boughton's. Nearly the last house, you know, before you come to the churchyard." Ben Rymer went striding towards Timberdale, putting his coat-collar well up, that he might not be recognized when going through the village, and arrived at the curate's lodgings. Mr. Sale was at home, sitting by the fire in a brown study, that seemed to have no light at all in it. Ben, as I knew later, sat down by him, and made a clean breast of everything: his temptation, his fall, and his later endeavours to do right. "Please God, I shall get on in the world now," he said; "and I think make a name in my profession. I don't wish to boast--and time of course will alone prove it--but I believe I have a special aptitude for surgery. My mother will be my care now; and Margaret--as you are good enough to say you still wish for her--shall be your care in future. There are few girls so deserving as she is." "I know that," said the curate. And he shook Ben's hand upon it as heartily as though it had been a duke royal's. It was close upon ten when Ben left him. Mrs. Rymer about that same time was making her usual preparations before retiring--namely, putting her curls in paper by the parlour fire. Margaret sat at the table, reading the Bible in silence, and so trying to school her aching heart. Her mother had been cross and trying all the evening: which did not mend the inward pain. "What are you crying for?" suddenly demanded Mrs. Rymer, her sharp eyes seeing a tear fall on the book. "For nothing," faintly replied Margaret. "_Nothing!_ Don't tell me. You are frizzling your bones over that curate, Sale. I'm sure _he_ is a beauty to look at."