‘I have indeed, Rhoda! Whatever my friends or enemies may think of my determination, I have resolved to follow the dictates of my own conscience, and be accountable to no one for my actions except God.’ The soft rose colour mounted to the girl’s cheeks with pleasure. ‘I am so glad,’ she whispered. ‘So you ought to be, for it is all your doing. Ever since I saw you last, I have been unable to get those words out of my ears: “To thine own self be true, It follows, as the night, the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.” I was untrue to myself, Rhoda, when I allowed my friends to persuade me to become a priest, but, at the time, I was in no fit state to judge of anything. But I think I might have remained in it for ever, had it not been for your encouragement and brave advice. I suppose I shall make a great scandal amongst my brethren by leaving it, but they will not make it more public than necessary. The churches always hush up anything that does not redound to their credit. But I am willing, in this case, to take all the blame on myself.’ ‘And what are you going to do, Fred? You will not prosecute that unfortunate man, I hope,’ said Rhoda, wistfully. ‘Ah! Rhoda, there is no need to do it! The temptation has been removed from my way. He is dead.’ ‘_Dead!_’ she echoed, wonderingly. ‘Yes. It is true. After I left you that evening, I found your persuasions and arguments had taken such hold upon my mind that I resolved to go on to this man’s dwelling at once and tell him he had nothing to fear from me.’ ‘Oh, Fred, how good of you!’ cried the girl, with tears in her eyes. ‘I did so, therefore, and saw the man’s wife, whom I found knew the whole story, and thought I had come to accuse her husband openly of the murder. I set her mind at rest on the subject, and she told me he had determined to leave England the following day. He had retired to rest, so I did not attempt to disturb him, knowing his wife would tell him everything. The next day I received a letter from her to say that, on going up to her husband’s room to communicate the news to him, she found him lying dead on the same bed as his little child. She tried to make out his was an ordinary sudden death, but, at the coroner’s inquest that followed, I see they brought it in as suicide. Undoubtedly, the poor wretch had taken poison under the fear of detection. I had heard he was greatly addicted to the use of morphia. Remorse had driven him out of his mind.’ ‘And the poor wife and children--what will become of them?’ asked Rhoda.