But Tom, in the sudden relief from the horrible fear that he had inadvertently taken the life of a fellow creature, had broken into a passion of sobs, shedding such tears as a man sheds but once in a lifetime--scalding tears of bitter repentance and shame. He and Mr. Curzon sat talking far into the night, and Tom told the story truly, keeping nothing back. "You've let drink and passion get the upper hand, Tom. You have put the love of a woman before the love of God, and you've come near to wrecking your life and hers in consequence. It would not have mended matters if you had hurried yourself into another world to which you have given so little thought, would it? It was a mad, wicked thought! a thought of the devil's own suggestion; but you are saved for the beginning of a better life, a new life in new surroundings." Tom glanced up quickly. "Not in Tasmania," he said. "The squire won't send me, after this." "You'll tell him about it, then," replied Mr. Curzon, with a heart-throb of thanksgiving that Tom was ready to face out the consequences of his action. "Oh yes; I shall tell him. He might hear it any way, but I'd rather tell him myself." "Very good. Now you had better go home to bed, and, if you have never said a real prayer before, you will say one to-night, Tom, to the God who has saved you from falling over a precipice of crime." Tom nodded; his heart was too full to speak. When the morning broke it found the rector in his study where Tom had left him, still upon his knees, for here and there, in this hurrying nineteenth century world, there is yet found a disciple who, like the Master whom he serves, will spend whole nights in prayer. Was not the salvation of a soul at stake? A fresh development of Rose Lancaster's love-affairs was brought to Mr. Curzon's notice on Monday, for the first person he met, as he left the rectory in the morning, was Rose herself--a crumpled dishevelled Rose, whose toilet gave evidence of hurry, and whose eyes were red with weeping. "Oh, sir, I've come because I didn't know what to do. We're all in dreadful trouble!--Dixon's gone!" "Not dead!" cried the rector in horror. "Oh no; he's run away. And oh, it's cruel, cruel! to have used me like this," said Rose, her sobs bursting out afresh. "I wonder what has made him do it? Has he left no note behind him?" "Not a line--nor a message for me," replied Rose. "Only a scrawl in pencil which the groom found on the saddle-room table, to say that nobody need try to trace him. And only to think that our banns were put up yesterday." "I think you are wasting your tears over a heartless scamp!" said the rector, a little impatiently. "Did you come with any message from the Court?" "No, sir; I only came to ask you if I ought to tell?" "To tell what?"