While Miss Colbourne was thus debating a nice point of morals, Mrs. Bateson was wearily pacing up and down her nursery, trying to hush the baby to sleep. But he was cutting his first tooth, and quite fractious enough to prefer his mother’s arms to the cot. When he condescended to be laid down, another child awoke, and it was nine o’clock before their mother descended the stairs. Her husband’s coat, saturated with rain, caught her eye in the hall, and she carried it off to the kitchen to dry. He was not in the sitting-room where the supper table, spread with cold meat and bread and cheese, awaited him. She did not like to disturb him, but sat down to an overflowing basket of socks till he should be ready. Perhaps of all those who knew of her illness she was the least concerned; she was thinking then, not of her journey, but whether Tommy ought not to give up skirts this autumn. She wished her husband would not work so late, she was anxious to consult him about so many things—he ought to have a new overcoat, and she wanted to make him promise to order it at once. But the curate was not at work; the rain that had drenched him in his long walk back from church to his home in the suburbs seemed to have affected him mentally. He sat, a limp, huddled-up figure, in his study armchair; he heard his wife come downstairs, but he was not ready to meet her gentle eyes and join in easy talk. Over six feet in height, his face had not lost its boyish look, with wavy light hair and bright blue eyes. But the lids were downcast now, and the lips under the scanty moustache were set in a curve of pain. The Vicar had not been to church, but Coombes had told him of the scanty response to their appeal. His pride revolted at their dependence on charity, while his heart was wrung with pity for his suffering wife. He had entered the ministry with a single desire for God’s service, and for a time all had gone well with him. But now the iron had entered into his soul, and he was tempted to curse God and die. His schoolfellows were prospering in the world; he, with gifts no whit behind them, was forced to see his wife fade by his side for lack of the sordid pence that had fallen so plentifully to their share. In his agony he dared God to a trial of strength; he challenged Him by the promises of old to show Himself a God of might, and to deliver His servants in their hour of need. A gentle tapping on the wall roused him at last; he strove for composure and in a few moments joined his wife in the sitting-room. “How late you are, Arthur,” she said anxiously, “and you look so tired. I do wish you would not study so late. A letter came for you an hour ago, but I did not like to disturb you,” and she held out a sealed envelope. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before opening it. Within were five ten-pound notes, and a scrap of paper bearing the lines—