The moonlight was very clear and very beautiful; the cool night air was heavy with the perfume of the old-fashioned flowers that bloomed so profusely in the little garden. But in the priest’s little room the closely drawn curtains shut out all the beauty of the night. Entirely forgetful of all the world, absolutely oblivious of every thing but one another, wrapped in the beautiful visions of a love that far outshone all the splendour of the summer night, the priest and the little acolyte were together. The little lad sat on his knees with his arms closely pressed round his neck and his golden curls laid against the priest’s close-cut hair; his white night-shirt contrasting strangely and beautifully with the dull black of the other’s long cassock. There was a step on the road outside—a step drawing nearer and nearer; a knock at the door. They heard it not; completely absorbed in each other, intoxicated with the sweetly poisonous draught that is the gift of love, they sat in silence. But the end had come: the blow had fallen at last. The door opened, and there before them in the doorway stood the tall figure of the rector. Neither said any thing; only the little boy clung closer to his beloved, and his eyes grew large with fear. Then the young priest rose slowly to his feet and put the lad from him. “You had better go, Wilfred,” was all he said. The two priests stood in silence watching the child as he slipped through the window, stole across the grass, and vanished into the opposite cottage. Then the two turned and faced each other. The young priest sank into his chair and clasped his hands, waiting for the other to speak. “So it has come to this!” he said: “the people were only too right in what they told me! Ah, God! that such a thing should have happened here! that it has fallen on me to expose your shame—our shame! that it is I who must give you up to justice, and see that you suffer the full penalty of your sin! Have you nothing to say?” “Nothing—nothing,” he replied softly. “I cannot ask for pity: I cannot explain: you would never understand. I do not ask you any thing for myself, I do not ask you to spare me; but think of the terrible scandal to our dear Church.” “It is better to expose these terrible scandals and see that they are cured. It is folly to conceal a sore: better show all our shame than let it fester.” “Think of the child.” “That was for you to do: you should have thought of him before. What has his shame to do with me? it was your business. Besides, I would not spare him if I could: what pity can I feel for such as he——?” But the young man had risen, pale to the lips. “Hush!” he said in a low voice; “I forbid you to speak of him before me with any thing but respect”; then softly to himself, “with any thing but reverence; with any thing but devotion.” The other was silent, awed for the moment. Then his anger rose.