The curate, how hideous he is, poor little man! and what a pity he is so painfully conscious of the loss of his front tooth! and what a lovely light that is from the window falling on his gown! It must be nice outside now. How the flies are buzzing on the panes, just like the organ! Maria Tanner should not be laughing like that; if father saw her he would be so angry, and Maria is such a nice girl, and so clever—took all the prizes at the diocesan examination last year—and her sister is considered quite an excellent housemaid by Lady Millbank. What a pretty bonnet Lady Millbank has on! Those violets suit her. Who is the man in the pew behind her? Why, that is the Crosby pew, and—— For one awful minute Susan feels the walls of the church closing in upon her; a sensation of faintness, a trembling of the knees, oppress her. She is conscious of all this, and then the mist fades away. No, no; of course it is not true. It is impossible. A remarkable likeness, no more. She could laugh almost at her own folly, and very nearly does so in her nervous state; but providentially the sight of a gloomy black and white tablet, erected to the memory of a dead and gone Crosby, that stands out from the wall right before her, prevents this act of desecration. She—she will look again, if only to assure herself of her own folly. Slowly, slowly she lifts her eyes—the eyes that now are standing in a very white face—and looks with a desperate courage at the Crosby pew. Her eyes meet full the eyes of its one occupant, and then Susan tells herself that it is all over, and death alone is to be looked for. For the eyes of the Crosby pew man are the eyes of Susan’s thief. There can be no mistake about it any longer. The man who sits in Mr. Crosby’s pew and Susan’s repentant thief are one and the same. Her eyes seem to cling to his. In the fever of horror that has overtaken her, she feels as if she could never remove them. For a full minute the man in the Crosby pew and Susan kneel, staring at each other; and then suddenly something happens. Lady Millbank, who is sitting in the pew before that of the Crosbys, turns round and hands Susan’s thief a Prayer-book. That in itself would be very well—everyone should give a thief a Prayer-book—but Lady Millbank has accompanied her gift with a friendly nod of recognition, a charming smile—the smile that Susan so well knows, the smile that is only given to those whom Lady Millbank desires to honour or to be in with. It is all quite plain now. The thief is Mr. Crosby, and Susan with a groan lets her face fall upon her clasped hands, and hopes vainly for the earth to open and swallow her up quick. But the earth is a stupid thing, and never does anything nowadays. Not a single earthquake appears for Susan’s accommodation, and the good old church is not conscious of even a quiver. The service goes on. The Litany is done. They all rise from their knees, and the curate gives out a hymn: