"Then you would have done a very wrong and foolish thing!" said I. "What if St. Paul had taken such a course? His crimes were committed of set purpose, yet did our Lord himself call him to the ministry, and that when he was upon the very errand of slaughter." "I don't know that I ever thought of that," said he. "But you know Archbishop Abbot was deprived because he killed a man by accident when out hunting." "I always thought it a very hard measure to the poor old gentleman," I said. "There was no malice in the act, and the archbishop did all in his power to make amends. My father was ever of the mind that if the Archbishop had been more of a courtier, his homicide would have troubled nobody." Mr. Penrose looked a little grave upon this. I believe he thinks it little less than blasphemy to say a word against the present archbishop. "But you see I was not killed, nor anything like it!" I continued. "So you may put off your purpose of retirement a little while." "Do you feel quite yourself again?" he asked, anxiously. "Why no, not altogether," I said. "I feel weak, and a little thing tires me, but I have no pain, and my head is quite clear. I had odd fancies while I was sick, Mr. Penrose. I remember them only dreamily, however, and hope to forget them altogether soon. I feel that I have much to be thankful for, both because my life was spared, and also for the care and kindness of all about me. It is not every poor girl, alone and among strangers, who meets with such friends." "If Margaret had died, I would have died too!" said Betty, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation. "And so would I!" said Mr. Penrose. But Betty was not pleased. "She is not 'your' Margaret!" she retorted, with the pertness which I have not yet been able to cure: "I don't see any call that 'you' would have to die!" I could not help smiling. But seeing Mr. Penrose's color rise, I chid Lady Betty, and bade her ask pardon, which she did readily enough, only rather spoiling it by repeating very decidedly, "But she is 'not' your Margaret, Mr. Penrose! She is mine!" "I wont have any quarrelling about me!" said I. "Come, my dear, we have sat here long enough, and here comes Mary to say that our dinner is ready." For since I have begun to sit up and move about a little, I have taken my meals with my child, an arrangement which she likes marvellously. "Shall we not see you at the table soon?" asked Mr. Penrose. "As soon as Mrs. Judith permits," I said. "I am at her orders, you know. Thank you, Mr. Penrose, for coming to see me." "Can I do nothing for you?" he asked. "There is one thing, if I may venture to ask so much," I said. "Would you find time to go down and read a chapter now and then to Dame Yeo at the almshouse. I promised to do so, but she must think me strangely forgetful." To my surprise, he hesitated. "I would gladly do so," he answered, presently, "but I fear Doctor Parnell would think it an undue interference."