“He feels that the disgrace which has fallen upon us would be reflected upon him, were he to make me his wife. Mother, there is no help for it: it _would_ disgrace him.” “But where there is no real guilt there can be no real disgrace,” objected Mrs. Channing. “I am firmly persuaded, however mysterious and unsatisfactory things may appear, that Arthur is not guilty, and that time will prove him so.” Constance could only shiver and sob. Knowing what she knew, she could entertain no hope. “Poor child! poor child!” murmured Mrs. Channing, her own tears dropping upon the fair young face, as she gathered it to her sheltering bosom. “What have you done that this blight should extend to you?” “Teach me to bear it, mother. It must be God’s will.” And Constance Channing lay in her resting-place, and there sobbed out her heart’s grief, as she had done in her early girlhood. CHAPTER XXVIII. -- AN APPEAL TO THE DEAN. The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Arthur Channing partially recovered his cheerfulness. The French have a proverb, which is familiar to us all: “_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_.” There is a great deal of truth in it, as experience teaches us, and as Arthur found. “Of what use my dependence upon God,” Arthur also reasoned with himself ten times a day, “if it does not serve to bear me up in this, my first trouble? As well have been brought up next door to a heathen. Let me do the best I can under it, and go my way as if it had not happened, trusting all to God.” A good resolution, and one that none could have made, and kept, unless he had learnt that trust, which is the surest beacon-light we can possess in the world. Hour after hour, day after day, did that trust grow in Arthur Channing’s heart. He felt a sure conviction that God would bring his innocence to light in His own good time: and that time he was content to wait for. Not at the expense of Hamish. In his brotherly love for Hamish, which this transaction had been unable to dispel, he would have shielded his reputation at any sacrifice to himself. He had grown to excuse Hamish, far more than he could ever have excused himself, had he been guilty of it. He constantly hoped that the sin might never be brought home to Hamish, even by the remotest suspicion. He hoped that he would never fall again. Hamish was now so kind to Arthur--gentle in manner, thoughtfully considerate, anxious to spare him. He had taken to profess his full belief in Arthur’s innocence; not as loudly perhaps, but quite as urgently, as did Roland Yorke. “He would _prove_ my innocence, and take the guilt to himself, but that it would bring ruin to my father,” fondly soliloquised Arthur.