Gwynneth was outside in the sun, doubly adorable now that he had lost her, and for other reasons too. Her sweet skin was flushed, and even her tears inflamed the unhappy young man. He looked at her long and passionately, then muttered venom through his teeth. "What did you say?" "I said it was like him, too, the blackguard!" "I don't know what you mean, and I don't want to." "It's as well," jeered Sidney, with exceeding malice; but already she was turning away. She was turning away without one word. In an instant he had her by both wrists, as the devil possessed himself. "Let me go," cried Gwynneth. "You're hurting me!" "I'm not. I'm not. I'm only going to let you know the kind of beast that's come between us." Gwynneth stood with unresisting wrists. Her scorn was splendid. "I am not sorry to have seen you in your true colours, Sidney." "You are going to see some one else in his." Her scorn had destroyed his last scruple. His eyes were devilish now. "Let me go, you brute!" "There are worse, Gwynneth, there are worse. It isn't a thing we can discuss, as I told you. But did you never notice the likeness?" Her blank face put the involuntary question he desired. "Only between the one big villain in this parish--and the one rather jolly little boy!" At last her wrists were released. But Gwynneth remained standing in the sun. She was not looking at Sidney; on the contrary, her face declared her oblivious to his continued presence. It was white with several kinds of horror; it was pinched with many separate pangs. So she stood a few moments, then went her way slowly, only turning with a shudder. As for him, his fever subsided as he watched; and, before the diminishing figure had passed out of the vista of cropped hedges and crude flowers, even Sidney Gleed knew himself, for once in his life, for what he was and would be to its end. XXVIII THE TURNING TIDE Next Sunday there was a real congregation. Yet the benches were almost as empty as before, the people herding near the porch until entreated either to occupy such seats as there were, or to leave the church. "Curiosity may have brought some of you here," said Mr. Carlton; "but I earnestly hope that none will remain in that spirit." The benches were full in a minute, and many had still to stand. All the next week Robert Carlton spent in sawing more planks to one length, and more props to one height for their support. And on the third Sunday his church was packed. The summer of 1887 was, however, a remarkable one. And the month of August was an ideal month for the inauguration of open-air services, where there were trees.