"Lost, lost, lost for ever!" She uttered these words so hopelessly, with such a wail of agony, that they seemed to echo along the archway, and to float off upon the night breeze, rising and falling, an utterance never to fade away, but to go on for ever and ever while this world lasts; to smite upon the sleeping ears of the cruel, the dissolute, and the profligate; to awaken here, perhaps, one sorrowful thought for wrong done, one thought of repentance; there, a desire to pause, ere it be too late, on the brink of some iniquity that should break a trusting woman's heart. Tenderly, and with such a strange feeling of compassion in his heart as might have pervaded that of his Master whose words he taught, Arthur Sterne took the weeping woman's hands in his, as, sobbing more bitterly than ever, she sank upon her knees on the cold stones at his feet, weeping as though her heart would break; nay, as if through the torn walls of that broken citadel the flood of tears went seething and hissing, the ruins yet smouldering and burning with the fire of the fatal passion that had been their fall. "What shall I do, sir?" she cried at length, wearily looking up in the face that bent over her. "I would take my little one away and go near the place no more, for I have been seldom lately, not liking that he should see me with her, for he followed us once, and I did not like it. I would have told her not to go near my child, but there is a woman sometimes there. He will not let me take it away. But tell me what to do, sir," she said wearily, "and I will do it." "What!" she cried, starting up, "what!" she half-shrieked, as he related to her the incident of the past night; "and this through me? Am I to bring misery everywhere? O God, O God!" she cried, "that my weakness, my sin, should be ever growing and bringing its misery upon others! But stop, sir; listen," she exclaimed huskily, as she clung to his arm; "what shall we do? If I could have seen this, sir, I'd have died sooner than it should have happened; believe me, I would." The curate bent his head once more, as they stood facing the street, and said, in low, impressive tones, "I do believe you;" but he took no heed to a light, stealthy pace in the alley behind. "What shall I do, sir?" cried Agnes eagerly. "Take the child away at once," replied Mr Sterne, "and leave this life. But will you?" "If the gates of heaven were opened, sir, and One said, `Come in, poor sinner, and rest,' should I go?" The stealthy step came nearer, but was unnoticed. "Now tell me your name, and how came the intimacy of which I complain," said Mr Sterne. "I--I knew the family; I knew Lucy--Miss Grey--before her father--and-- pray, pray ask me no more," gasped Agnes appealingly. "I will do all you wish, sir. Help me to get my child, and I will go anywhere you may tell me; but don't ask me that, sir."