“I thank you, ma’am,” said Mrs. Jenkins, looking wistfully at the sovereign, which was a great sum of money to a sexton’s wife with children, then instantly going on with her dusting; “but it ain’t no use tryin’ of tricks with our parson. HE ain’t one of your Mollies. A man as don’t play no tricks with hisself, as I heerd a gentleman say, it ain’t no use tryin’ no tricks with HIM.” Almost while she spoke, the curate entered. The suppliant drew herself up, and endeavoured to look both dignified and injured. “Would you oblige me by walking this way for a moment?” he said, coming straight to her. Without a word she followed him, a long way up the church, to the stone screen which divided the chancel from the nave. There, in sight of Mrs. Jenkins, but so far off that she could not hear a word said, he asked her to take a seat on the steps that led up to the door in the centre of the screen. Again she obeyed, and Wingfold sat down near her. “Are you Emmeline’s mother?” he said. The gasp, the expression of eye and cheek, the whole startled response of the woman, revealed that he had struck the truth. But she made no answer. “You had better be open with me,” he said, “for I mean to be very open with you.” She stared at him, but either could not, or would not speak. Probably it was caution: she must hear more. The curate was already excited, and I fear now got a little angry, for the woman was not pleasant to his eyes. “I want to tell you,” he said, “that the poor youth whom your daughter’s behaviour made a murderer of,--” She gave a cry, and turned like ashes. The curate was ashamed of himself. “It seems cruel,” he said, “but it is the truth. I say he is now dying--will be gone after her in a few weeks. The same blow killed both, only one has taken longer to die. No end can be served by bringing him to justice. Indeed if he were arrested, he would but die on the way to prison. I have followed you to persuade you, if I can, to leave him to his fate and not urge it on. If ever man was sorry, or suffered for his crime,--” “And pray what is that to me, sir?” cried the avenging mother, who, finding herself entreated, straightway became arrogant. “Will it give me back my child? The villain took her precious life without giving her a moment to prepare for eternity, and you ask me--her mother--to let him go free! I will not. I have vowed vengeance, and I will have it.” “Allow me to say that if you die in that spirit, you will be far worse prepared for eternity than I trust your poor daughter was.” “What is that to you? If I choose to run the risk, it is my business. I tell you it shall not be my fault if the wretch is not brought to the gallows.” “But he cannot live to reach it. The necessary preliminaries would waste all that is left of his life. I only ask of you to let him die in what peace is possible to him. We must forgive our enemies, you know. But indeed he is no enemy of yours.”