They buried Adelaide next morning, Thomas again, though with difficulty, obtaining leave of absence. As soon as he saw Codling, Thomas knew that he had been drinking hard the previous night. The poor man's hands shook as with the palsy, his step was unsteady, his eye dull and bloodshot. A low fever seemed to consume him; yet he obviously felt keenly that morning the errand he and the labourer were upon, and though he hardly spoke a word all the way to the grave, he no longer looked at his companion with sullen anger. Rather he seemed to cling to Thomas as a woman clings to her natural protector. And when the earth fell on the coffin lid as the last words of the solemn burial service of the Church of England were uttered--solemn even when gabbled over by the unhappy creatures who have to repeat it every day, and all day long--he broke down again, sobbing and weeping like a child. They waited till the last sod had been placed over the lost Adelaide, and ere he went away the Vicar knelt on the damp earth, praying and weeping bitterly. Then he rose and stretched out his hand to Wanless, whose cheeks were also wet with tears, as if seeking one to lead him. Thomas grasped it, and pressed it, with "God bless and have mercy on you, sir, and on her as lies here." "Ah! Thomas"--it was the first time the Vicar had called him kindly as of old by his Christian name--"ah! Thomas, my friend, and may God bless you for what you have done this day. But for you I would have deserted my child in death, as I did in life. God forgive me for it." These words seemed to open his heart, so that he talked to Wanless, all the way back to town, in an eager way, like one who had a confession to make, and could taste no peace till it was done. A sad history enough it was of domestic bitterness, of an enfeebled will, knowing what was right, and doing it not. His impulse was to seek his daughter, just as Thomas's had been, but Mrs. Codling would not hear of it. Her pride did not even allow her to admit that the girl had gone away after her betrayer. She talked of a visit to a relative at a distance, who was her own step-sister, and of Adelaide herself being ill in Kent, poor thing--not in any danger, but not strong enough to return yet--with many lies of a like kind, which the Vicar was weak enough to endorse by his silence. Wanless also spoke of his quest and his sorrow, and the Vicar listened with sympathy; but when the peasant ventured to urge that it was his duty to denounce, and expose the ravenous wolf, who had destroyed the peace of so many families, Codling shook his head and answered--"No, no, Thomas, I cannot; I dare not. It is too late." "Why too late, sir? Are you not a minister of Christ, and bound by the office you hold to denounce the sinner and his sin?" The Vicar shuddered, and sat still for more than a minute without answering. Then he bent forward and took Thomas's hand--they sat on opposite sides of the cab.