As the candle-light shone on Mary Brent's face, it marked a curious change wrought by these few hours. The placidity had stiffened into obstinacy, as a water-drop stiffens into an icicle. The nostrils were slightly pinched, and the lines which bigotry draws around the mouth were already defining themselves in dim outline. No one can determine to believe evil of another without planting in his own soul the seeds of deterioration. Mary Brent had no sooner said in her heart, "Christopher Neville is a murderer," than she began to desire his punishment, and having banished him from the circle of her sympathy, she was fain to justify herself by seeking, and secretly wishing proof of his guilt. From this, it was but a step to suspicion of all his acts; and after that came uncharitableness, and hatred cloaking itself under love of justice and pious devotion to holy Church, which had been thus outraged in the person of its priest. Already the dark deed enacted in the forest was working, not only on the lives, but on the character of those among whom it had fallen. The men and women here at St. Gabriel's were being tried in the crucible of destiny, and none could foresee which should emerge pure gold, and which should be utterly consumed in the fire. Still the priest's voice sounded from the altar, and the responsive chant rose and fell on the still air. An awe such as had never before touched her young life stole over Peggy Neville as she listened, and crowded out the petty vanities which had filled her mind at first. As she looked at the bier and the priest's body stretched upon it, she seemed to see her own future strangely intertwined by destiny with the fate of this rigid figure. How still it lay! Oh, if it would only move! The mass came to an end. Dead silence fell, and lasted. Peggy felt that she could bear it no longer. She must cry out, scream, or perhaps by one of those strange, contradictory emotions which assail the human soul at great crises, laugh aloud with wild, unreal hilarity. At this instant she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and her brother's voice said in her ear, "Get thy cloak and hood and meet me outside the door." His voice sounded grave and ominous. With beating heart she stole away from the circle already breaking up into whispering groups, and, having donned her cloak with the scarlet berries still clinging to its breast, she made her way out at a side door, and walked hurriedly down the path till she saw her brother waiting for her beneath the shadow of the snow-laden trees. At sight of him her tense mood broke suddenly, and bursting into tears, she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Kit! Kit! Tell me about it! Who is he? What is he to us? Why dost thou look so white and strange?" Christopher Neville swallowed hard, and moved his lips without utterance.