The rector felt that he was fairly defeated and out-manœuvred; so much so that Mrs. Hammond, whose sympathies were entirely on his side, expected him to break into a furious passion. But the very skill and coolness of his adversary acted as a warning and an example, and by a mighty effort he controlled himself. He rose from his chair with outward calmness, and, saying contemptuously, “Well, I am glad that I know what your opinion is—an open foe is less dangerous than a secret one,” he turned from Clode. Holding out his hand to his hostess, he muttered some form of leave-taking, and walked out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster. He had certainly had the worst of the encounter. And he felt very bitter about it, as he crossed the top of the town. Whether the curate knew of his intention of resigning or not, his conduct in turning upon him and openly expressing his disbelief in his honesty was alike cruel and brutal. The man was false. The rector felt sure of it. But the pain which he experienced on this account—the pain of a generous man misunderstood and ill-requited—soon gave way to self-reproach. He had brought the thing on himself by his indiscreet passion. He had acted like a boy! He was not fit to be in a responsible position. While he was still full of this, chewing the cud of his imprudence, he saw a slender figure, which he recognized, crossing the street a little way before him. He knew it at the first glance. In a moment he recognized the graceful lines, the half-proud, half-gentle carriage of the head, the glint of the cold February sun in the fair hair. It was Kate Bonamy; and the rector, as he increased his pace, became conscious, with something like a shock, of the pleasure it gave him to see her, though he had parted from her not twenty-four hours before. In a moment he was at her side, and she, turning suddenly, saw him with a start of glad surprise. “Mr. Lindo!” she stammered, holding out her hand before he offered his, and uttering the first words which rose to her lips, “I am so glad!” She was thinking of the pit accident, of the risk and his safety, and perhaps a little of his good name. And he understood. But he affected not to do so. “Are you indeed, Miss Bonamy?” he answered. “Glad that I am going?” His eyes met hers, and then both his and hers fell. “No,” she said gently and slowly. “But I am very glad, Mr. Lindo, that you have done what seemed right to you without considering your own advantage.” “I have done a great deal since I saw you yesterday,” he answered, taking refuge in a jest. “You have, indeed.” “Including taking your advice.” “I am quite sure you had made up your mind before you asked my opinion,” she answered earnestly.