“That is the best answer; is it not intelligible?” The worthy Mayor held up his hands in nervous terror. “Come up with me to my own apartment, Sir William. We must consult upon your safety. You will be outlawed for murder. Come, and allow me to introduce you to my lady. She wont frighten you as she does--.” The look which accompanied the pause and omission well supplied the personal pronoun. “You cannot return to Haigh Hall until the morning. Guards, you may depart. Do honour to Sir William.” They raised a loud shout, which brought the lady down in a quick dance. Early in the morning, after an hour’s sleep, Sir William left the Mayor’s house. It was dull and rainy, and his spirits were more melancholy than on the previous evening. There was none of that longing desire to see a home and a wife, although for many years they had both been strangers. The atmosphere was oppressive. Nature had neither beautiful sights, nor fragrant scents to please him. The street was muddy, and the houses were darkened with the overhanging clouds. He had passed the gate leading to Standish, when his attention was arrested by a female kneeling at the Cross which De Norris had erected. She looked upwards with an eye of sorrow, and prayer. He started as he recognized the beautiful features of Mabel Bradshaigh. Heedless of the rain, and exposed to the cold, she had assumed the lowly posture. He heard the words breathed earnestly, “Oh! heaven, and Sir William, forgive me, and accept of this my penance!” She raised herself as his steps were nearer. What deep delight, tinged however with penitence, glowed on her countenance as she beheld her returned lord. “Thank heaven! but oh! let me kneel to thee. Wilt thou forgive me, Sir William? This cross, was raised by a faithless ancestor to the shades of the maid whom his perjury had destroyed, and here I must do penance thus. But oh, look not upon me, exposed as I am,”--and she blushed as her eyes fell upon her naked legs and feet. “Mabel, this penance is cruel to both of us. What! those beautiful legs, and small feet, must they trample upon the mud and the stones! Remember, Mabel, that I will wash them myself this morning, in the fountain. Nay, no more penance.” “It must not be, Sir William. I have made a vow that every week I will travel thus, from Haigh, to this Cross. And oh, do not prevent me;--you must not, otherwise I cannot be happy in your company. Penance is necessary for love injured.” Mabel spoke the truth. Injured love requires it, though it only be paid with a tear, a sigh, or a sorrowful look. Yes, penance, thou art holy, and necessary; for where is the love which is not injured?