But her carriage was already gone. A strange sense of loneliness and desolation seized her. The place had grown hateful to her, and she would have fled from it. Yet she lingered in the porch. The eyes of the man in the pulpit, with his face of false solemnity and low importance--she seemed to feel the look of them on her back, yet she lingered. Now that Malcolm was gone, how was she to learn when Mr Graham would be preaching? “If you please, ma’am,” said a humble and dejected voice. She turned and saw the seamed and smoky face of the pew-opener, who had been watching her from the lobby, and had crept out after her. She dropped a courtesy, and went on hurriedly, with an anxious look now and then over her shoulder-- “Oh, ma’am! we shan’t see _him_ no more. Our people here--they’re very good people, but they don’t like to be told the truth. It seems to me as if they knowed it so well they thought as how there was no need for them to mind it.” “You don’t mean that Mr Graham has given up preaching here?” “They’ve given up astin’ of ’im to preach, lady. But if ever there was a good man in that pulpit, Mr Graham he do be that man!” “Do you know where he lives?” “Yes, ma’am; but it would be hard to direct you.” Here she looked in at the door of the chapel with a curious half-frightened glance, as if to satisfy herself that the inner door was closed. “But,” she went on, “they won’t miss me now the service is begun, and I can be back before it’s over. I’ll show you where, ma’am.” “I should be greatly obliged to you,” said Clementina, “only I am sorry to give you the trouble.” “To tell the truth, I’m only too glad to get away,” she returned, “for the place it do look like a cementery, now _he’s_ out of it.” “Was he so kind to you?” “He never spoke word to me, as to myself like, no, nor never gave me sixpence, like Mr Masquar do; but he give me strength in my heart to bear up, and that’s better than meat or money.”