That same day, when busy out in the fields, sick at heart, and worried, after a short interview with Tom Podmore, John Maine was standing alone, and thinking of the past and present. Of the respite that had come to him, since the two men had visited the town, and of the miserable life he led at the farm, and the way in which Jessie behaved to him now; for, to his sorrow, it seemed to him that she looked upon him with a kind of horror, and avoided all communication. The keeper, Brough, came pretty frequently, and certainly she was more gracious to him than to the man who lived with her in the same house and ate at the same table. Then he recalled that he had had a note from the vicar requesting him to call at the vicarage; but he had not been, partly from dread, partly from shame. "But I'll go," he said. "I'll be a man and go; go at once, and tell him the whole secret; and be at rest, come what may. Tom says it will be best." He sat down beneath a hedge bottom to secure the strap of one of his leggings, when, raising his head, he saw in the distance, crossing one of the stiles, a figure which he knew at a glance was that of one of the men he dreaded--one of those who had done their best to make him another of the Ishmaelites who war against society. A cold chill passed over him, followed by a hot perspiration, as he watched till the figure passed out of sight, and then he began to muse. "Come at last, then. It must be with an object." "Let me see," he thought; "it will be perfectly dark to-night. Nearly new moon. He has come down to see how the land lies, and before morning, unless he's checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger." "It's only a part of one's life," he said, bitterly, as he started up. "I've been a scoundrel, and I thowt I'd grown into a honest man, when I was only a coward. Now the time has come to show myself really honest, and with God's help I'll do it." Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door. "Yes," he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination lying latent in his breast. "Yes, Mrs Slee?" "Here's John Maine fro' the farm wants to see thee, sir." "Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I'll be with him in five minutes." And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against his thoughts. The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling. "Glad to see you, Maine," said the vicar, kindly. "Could you not find a chair?" "Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand. I ought to have been here before, but, like all things we don't want to do, I put it off. I want to tell you something, sir. I want to confess."