So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked purpose. Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate by which I generally leave and return. Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again between us, he being on the outside. "Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white as death. Do you hear me?" I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and subdued. "As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the circumstances." After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and leaves me. CHAPTER XXVIII During many days that follow I lie prostrate, weak as a little child, upon my bed. The shock, the thoughts he has called up, the sure and certain knowledge he has imparted to me of how that part of the world that knows all my sad story regards my position, has done much to destroy the poor remains of life and hope that still cling to me almost unconsciously. A fresh cold has again attacked me, and brought on with increased vigor my old cough. By the middle of May, I am a complete wreck of my once buoyant self. Rising one Sabbath morning with a curious awesome sense of coming dissolution upon me, I put on my outdoor things, and slowly crawl, rather than walk, the little way that separates me from the rustic, ivy covered church. The sexton, all prying eyes and gaping mouth, shows me, heavily veiled as I am, into the Carrington pew, guessing instinctively, though he has never seen me, that the strange lady of Hazelton has at last given in and confessed a craving for spiritual consolation. I kneel and pray as in a dream. The voices of the village choir rise up around me, yet scarcely enter my dulled ear. The Litany, with all its grandeur, all its solemn beauty, fails to impress my sickened soul. I sit alone, apart, my veil drawn down, my hands clasped upon my knees, turning neither to the right nor left, dimly conscious that the sermon I hear so coldly is far beyond the average of those usually served up to the congregations of remote, almost forgotten country towns. When it is over, and my neighbors have well departed, I move down the aisle, and make my way down again to my hermitage, unmoved, unsoftened, by all I have heard and seen. After the mockery called lunch is at an end, I go to my chosen sitting-room, and, getting into a window that overlooks a small inlet of the sea, sit down to my incessant musing.