"Make way, I tell you!" shouted the sumner to the throng that crowded upon him, and into the porch, and through the company that had come for the christening. When the Archdeacon stepped down from the side of the font, the sumner with his prisoner drew up on the instant and the noisy crew stood and was silent. "I have brought her for her oath, your reverence," said the sumner, dropping his voice and his head together. "Who accuses her?" the Archdeacon asked. "Her old mother," said the sumner; "here she is." From the middle of the throng behind him the sumner drew out an elderly woman with a hard and wizened face. Her head was bare, her eyes were quick and restless, her lips firm and long, her chin was broad and heavy. The woman elbowed her way forward; but when she was brought face to face with the Archdeacon, and he asked her if she charged her daughter, she looked around before answering, and seeing her girl Mally standing there with her white face, under the fire of fifty pairs of eyes, all her resolution seemed to leave her. "It isn't natheral, I know," she said, "a mother speaking up agen her child," and with that her hard mouth softened, her quick eyes reddened and filled, and her hands went up to her face. "But nature goes down with a flood when you're looking to have another belly to fill, and not a shilling at you this fortnight." The girl stood without a word, and not one streak of color came to her white cheeks as her mother spoke. "She denied it, and denied it, and said no, and no; but leave it to a mother to know what way her girl's going." There was a low murmur among the people at the back and some whispering. The girl's keen ear caught it, and she turned her head over her shoulder with a defiant glance. "Who is the man?" said the Archdeacon, recalling her with a touch of his finger on her arm. She did not answer at first, and he repeated the question. "Who is the guilty man?" he said, in a voice more stern. "It's not true. Let me go," said the girl, in a quick undertone. "Who is the partner of your sin?" "It's not true, I say. Let me go, will you?" and the girl struggled feebly in the sumner's grip. "Bring her to the altar," said the Archdeacon. He faced about and walked toward the chancel, and entered it. The company followed him and drew up outside the communion rail. He took a Testament from the reading-desk and stepped toward the girl. There was a dead hush. "The Church provides a remedy for slander," he said, in a cold, clear tone. "If you are not guilty, swear that you are innocent, that he who tampers with your good name may beware." With that the Archdeacon held the Testament toward the girl. She made no show of taking it. He thrust it into her hand. At the touch of the book she gave a faint cry and stepped a pace backward, the Testament falling open on to the penitent-form beneath.