“Upon the whole, _no_ sir; it will make little difference, in the end, and I think it best that this man should be allowed to show his hand,” said Lord Montressor; then tearing a leaf from a blank book on the table, writing a check for a thousand pounds on the bank of Exeter, and handing it to Mr. Oldfield, he continued, “Offer bail to any amount for her appearance at court; and then, Mr. Oldfield, I am sure that you will take this poor, shorn lamb to your fold, put her under the care of your excellent lady, and bid her trust God with the result.” “We will certainly do all that can possibly be done for this poor child in her extremity; but—put up your check, my dear lord, for though you are her truest friend, it is not expedient that this good office should emanate from you,” said the venerable man. “I believe you are right, sir; but what then can be done, since her father abandons her?” Again the two clergymen conversed apart, and then Mr. Trevor spoke— “We are not bankers, my lord, it is true; but we can afford to risk some hundred pounds apiece.” “Risk, sir! There will be no risk—do you know Estelle, and imagine that she will not duly present herself for trial?” “Certainly not—certainly not, my dear lord! The word was unhappily chosen. I meant merely that we might be held _responsible_ for so much money.” “Go now, dear sirs, to that poor girl, lest the Duchess of Graveminster think her ermine irremediably tarnished by holding any longer that blighted head upon her bosom. I will meet you at the magistrate’s.” “Use my carriage, if no other is provided, Oldfield; I will find a seat in Lord Montressor’s, and be in attendance also,” said the kind-hearted bishop, whose sympathies had been strongly moved. The reverened gentleman thanked the bishop, and left the church in search of their unhappy charge. On reaching the yard they found that every carriage, with the exception of that of Lord Montressor and that of the Bishop of Exeter, had left the scene. Yes—parents, friends, acquaintances, bridemaids and bridemen, all had fled the place as though the plague were there. The Duchess of Graveminster had departed with the rest. Estelle was left unsustained, leaning for support against the upright headstone of an humble grave, and guarded by the policeman. The pitying clergyman approached her, laid his hand upon her bowed head, and gently said— “Be not so utterly cast down, my child; raise your heart to Him who—when ‘all forsook him and fled,’ remained unshaken in his trust of his Father.” But the grief-stunned girl seemed not to hear, or see, or be in any way conscious of the presence of the speaker; she remained wrapped in her white robe and vail, leaning over the tombstone, perfectly motionless, and might have seemed some risen ghost or descended spirit standing at the grave.