The words struck upon me. The Miss Pages had kept the secret too closely for news of it to have come abroad. It seemed worse to me to hear it than to her to say it. But she had grown too weak to feel things strongly. "Good-bye, Johnny." "Good-bye, Jessy dear," I whispered. "Don't fear: God will be sure to take you to heaven if you ask Him." Miss Abigail got it out of me--what she had said about the priest. In fact, I told. She was very cross. "There; let it drop, Johnny Ludlow. John Drench is gone off in the gig to Coughton to bring one. All I hope and trust is, that they'll not be back until the shades of night have fallen upon the earth! I shouldn't like a priest to be seen coming into _this_ door. Such a reproach on good Mr. Holland! I'm sure I trust it will never get about!" We all have our prejudices, I repeat. And not a soul amongst us for miles round had found it necessary to change religions since the Reformation. Evening was well on when John Drench brought him in. A mild-faced man, wearing a skull-cap under his broad-brimmed hat. He saw Jessy alone. Miss Page would not have made a third at the interview though they had bribed her to it--and of course they wouldn't have had her. It was quite late when he came down. Miss Page stopped him as he was going out, after declining refreshment. "I presume, sir, she has told you all about this past year--that has been so mysterious to us?" "Yes; I think all," replied the priest. "Will you tell me the particulars?" "I cannot do that," he said. "They have been given to me under the seal of confession." "Only to me and to her sister Susan," pleaded Abigail. "We will not even disclose it to our father. Sir, it would be a true kindness to us, and it can do her no harm. You do not know what our past doubts and distress have been." But the priest shook his head. He was very sorry to refuse, he said, but the tenets of his Church forbade his speaking. And Miss Page thought he _was_ sorry, for he had a benevolent face. "Best let the past lie," he gently added. "Suffice it to know that she is happy now, poor child, and will die in peace." * * * * * They buried her in the churchyard beside her mother. When the secret got about, some said it was not right--that she ought to have been taken elsewhere, to a graveyard devoted to the other faith. Which would just have put the finishing stroke on old Page--broken all that was left of his heart to break. The Squire said he didn't suppose it mattered in the sight of God: or would make much difference at the Last Day.