"It means," said Aunt Hildy, "that man's a rascal; I told you, Mis' Minot, he was when I first set eyes on him, and I've kept good track of Emily, for when he see he couldn't get the 'rich widder,' that's what he calls our good little creetur Clara, then he tacked round and set sail for Emily, and he's been a torment to her, and I know it. Thank the Lord, he's shown his cloven foot; I wish Mr. Minot had heard it. _He_ laughs at me, thinks I'm a fool, but I've seen through him if I do wear an old cloak. It's mine, and so is my wit, what little I've got." Aunt Hildy stepped up lively and worked every moment, keeping time to her thoughts and giving great expression by her peculiar accenting of words. Clara heard us, and came in "to the rescue," she said, "for it sounded as if somebody was getting a scolding." I repeated my story, and although she rarely used French expressions, this time she clasped her little hands together, sank into a chair, and said: "Oh! Emélie, j'ai su depuis longtemps, qu'il nous ferait un grand tort. Le pauvre agneau! Le pauvre agneau!" "What will father do?" I said to mother. "I cannot think of anything to do except to help the poor girl; his own punishment is sure, Emily; we are not his masters. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" she quoted calmly. "Yes," said Aunt Hildy, "that's the spirit to have, but I believe if I had really heard it as Emily did, I'd have risked it to throw a pan of dish water on him." I could not help laughing--we were having a real drama in the kitchen. Great tears had gathered in Clara's eyes, and I said to her: "Now this will upset you. I'm sorry you heard it." "No, no," she said, "but the poor lamb, I can hardly wait for the time when I may see her." "Can you ever speak to Mr. Benton again?" I said to mother. "I should hope so, Emily. I feel great pity for him; he might be a better man. We are taught toleration not of principles, but certainly of men, and I think if our Heavenly Father will forgive him, we can afford to, and then it would be very unwise to let him know we are cognizant of this." My mother reminded me so many times of the light that burns steadily in a light-house on a ledge. The waves, washing the solid rock, and wearing even the stone at its base, have no power to disturb the lamp, which, well trimmed, burns silently on, throwing its beams far out to sea, and fanning hope in the heart of the sailor, who finds at last the shore and blesses the beacon light. I admired her calm and steadfast trust in the truth, that bore her along in her daily doing right toward all with whom she mingled, but I well knew she would be righteously indignant toward Mr. Benton, and also that the whole truth, with the letter and the story of "the lamb," would soon be forthcoming. I could hardly wait for the recital which I expected to hear in the afternoon, and entered Mrs. Goodwin's door at three o'clock precisely. She was glad to see me, and said cheerily: