He listens in awe. He has never heard language like this--he has never heard a voice like this. "Lay me in that porch. Then seek a woman with a kind heart, and send her to me. Then--then----" She struggles with nature. With the strength of a death's agony she fights for another minute of consciousness. "And then?" he prompts, with his ear close to her lips, for the snow falls scarcely less lightly than the word; she breathes forth. "Then," she whispers, "seek _him_, and bring him to my side." She has finished, and sinks into his arms, where she lies insensible and motionless, with her white face turned upwards to the sky, and the soft snow floating down upon it. Implicitly he obeys her. Swiftly, and with the gentleness of a good woman, he bears her to the porch, and stripping off his outer coat, wraps her in it, and lays her within the holy hood of the house of prayer. Once or twice he speaks to her, but receives no answer; and once, with a sudden fear upon him, he places his ear to her heart, and hears with thankfulness its faint beating. He wipes the snow from her face, and, his task being thus far accomplished, he leaves her to seek for help. The churchyard, with its silent dead, is not outwardly more still than is the form of this hapless girl; and but for the mystery within her, hidden mercifully from the knowledge of men, she might have been as dead as any buried in that ancient place. The soft snow falls and falls, and vagrant flakes float into the porch, and rest lightly upon her, like white-winged heralds of love and pity. In the churchyard are tombs of many designs--some lying low in humility, some rearing their heads with an arrogance befitting, mayhap, the clay they cover when it was animated with life. Lies there beneath these records the dust of any woman's heart, which, when it beat, suffered as Nelly suffers now? Lie there, in this solemn place, the ashes of any who was wronged as she is wronged, deserted as she is deserted, wrecked as she is wrecked? If such there be, mayhap the spirits of the dead look down pityingly upon this suffering child, and hover about her in sympathy and love. Where, when haply she is once more conscious of the terror of her position, shall she look for succour, for practical pity and love? If man deserts her, can the angels help her? Comes the answer so soon? A gentleman approaches the church with blithe steps. His face is flushed with pleasure, his eyes are bright, his heart beats high. He has had a triumph to-night. A thousand persons have listened to his praises, and have indorsed them--proud to see him, proud to know him, proud to have him among them, proud to add their tribute to his worth and goodness. He is elate and joyful. The moon, emerging from a cloud, shines upon his face. It is Mr. Temple. The light shines also upon the white tombs of the dead, and upon Nelly's face.