As if in sympathy with the words, a dark cloud passed across the face of the sun, and the sunbeam, with its myriad wonders, vanished on the instant, while the truant flashes of light that were playing in the corners of the room darted gladly away to places where light was. The old man bowed his head, and the words came slowly from his trembling lips. "Cruel! Unjust! Wicked!" he said. "Bitterly, bitterly wicked! Do we not all worship the same God? What has this innocent clay done, that holy words may not fall upon the earth that covers her? What have we done, that the last consolation of prayer shall be denied to us?" Then looking the minister steadily in the face, he said in a firm voice, "According to your deserts may you be judged! According to your deserts may you, who set your law above God's, and call yourself His priest, be dealt with when your time comes!" Turning, he was about to go, when the voice of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell stopped him. "Now that you have done your reviling, attend to me for a few moments. You lived in this parish once?" "Twenty years ago," replied the old man. "All my life up to that time--I and my poor daughter. There will be some here who will remember me." "I remember you myself. You had a son?" "No; I had but one child, she who lies yonder." "Psha! it is the same--you had a son-in-law----" The old man looked up with apprehensive eagerness, and Alfred, who had hitherto been perfectly passive--having indeed for most of the time been engrossed in torturing himself about Christopher Sly and the Northumberland Plate--made a sudden movement forward. The old man laid his hand upon his grandson's arm, cautioning him to silence. "The father of these young persons," continued the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "Where is he?" "Alfred," exclaimed the old man, "take Lily away. It is too close for her here. I will join you presently outside." Indeed, Lily was almost fainting. The long weary ride, the abstention from food for so many hours, and the sufferings she had experienced during the dialogue between her grandfather and the minister, had been too much for her strength. Seeing her weak state, Felix stepped forward to assist Alfred, and presently they were in the porch. "Stay one moment, I pray," exclaimed Felix hurriedly; "only a moment." He darted into the house, and brought out a chair. "There!" he said. "Let her sit here for a minute or two. It will do her good. The sun is the other side of us." It is a fact that Felix, with quick instinct, had selected this place as being likely to revive the girl. They were out of the glare of the sun. "Now, if you will oblige me and not let her move," he said in the same hurried eager tone, "you will lay me under an obligation that I shall never be able to pay."