"No," he coldly said, "I do not think she can, or ought to remain under circumstances; think of the dreadful crime she has almost committed, Mr. Tremenhere,--suicide!" "True, but she has promised not to attempt that again. In our toiling passage to the attainment of any object, we must drink many a bitter draught. She must try and submit for a while, I fear, to a few annoyances: poor Mary--what can I do?" "Pardon me, Mr. Tremenhere," answered Skaife in a cold but decided tone; "with _my_ consent, as curate of this parish, she shall not remain. She might not commit suicide; but men are strange creatures, and the woman they cast from them to-day, they might kneel to, to-morrow, were she to appear indifferent; this girl shall never know the temptation such an act on his part might be." Tremenhere stopped as if transfixed by a bolt of iron, and stared in speechless wonder in his companion's face. Skaife continued speaking, mistaking the dark cloud of demoniacal expression crossing that handsome face, for indignation towards himself for his free speech; for this he little cared. "Mr. Burton's ardent, but heartless, pursuit of the girl till her ruin ensued, proves a deeper motive, I fear, than passion; the same revenge towards you, may urge----" He said no more. "Stop!" cried Miles, in a voice of thunder, and he grasped the other's arm, and arrested his footsteps. His whole power of utterance above a whisper seemed to have been expended in that one word; for his voice became a mere breath like a dying man's, as he asked, while that strong, robust frame tottered beneath his heart's weight in his agony, "Do I understand you aright, that Mary Burns has been seduced, and by Marmaduke Burton?" "Alas, yes! I thought you understood so from your words in that cottage." Poor Skaife was pale with emotion; the other had not changed, his blood stood still, only the muscles had given way beneath the blow. There was a long silence; Miles still grasped his arm till it fell from that clasp at last, powerless to hold it--they were near the stile leading into the lane where Mary's cottage was situated. "Does Miss Dalzell know this?" inquired Miles, as if one thought, rushing with the many through his brain, found an outlet. "The ruin, but not the man," answered Skaife. "God bless her, then!" burst from the suffering man's lips, and with that blessing the blood flowed once more through his frame. It was as a gush of molten lead, forcing its way outwards, burning as it rushed; his face became dark and lurid, and his flashing eyes looked wildly forward.