‘No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,’ said Lily; ‘it all began from just after Eleanor’s wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.’ ‘Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.’ ‘But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price—the widow’s only child?’ ‘You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.’ ‘Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,’ said Lily. ‘Surely,’ was the answer, ‘it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.’ ‘If it was to fall on any one,’ said Lilias, ‘I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.’ The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, ‘Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.’ ‘You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,’ said her cousin. ‘Of course,’ said Lily; ‘but some one thing, some punishment.’ ‘I will answer you to-morrow,’ said Mr. Devereux. ‘One thing more,’ said Lily, looking down; ‘after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday’s feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.’ ‘Lily, you can best judge,’ said the Rector, kindly. ‘I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.’ ‘How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,’ said Lily; ‘and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?’