Bradly and Foster were among those who followed him to the grave, and listened with awe to the sublime words of the burial service. As they turned to go home, Bradly noticed a female among the by-standers, whose face he felt sure he knew, though it was nearly concealed from him by her handkerchief, and the pains she manifestly took to avoid observation as much as possible. She was one, if she was the person he supposed her to be, whom he would least have expected to meet on the present occasion; but he might, of course, be mistaken. That same evening, while he was sitting in his surgery about nine o'clock, he heard a timid knock at the outer door. He was used to all sorts of knocks, bold and timid, loud and gentle, so he at once said, "Come in," and was not surprised to see a woman enter, with her face muffled up in a shawl. "Take a seat, missus," he said in a kind voice, "and tell me what I can do for you."--His visitor sat down and uncovered her face without speaking a word. It was Lydia Philips, the publican's daughter. She was simply dressed; her face was very pale and sad, and she had evidently been weeping, for the tears were still on her cheeks. "Mr Bradly," she said, "will you give a word of advice and a helping hand to a poor heart-broken girl? You and I don't know much of each other, but at any rate you won't quite despise me, though you know who I am, when I tell you my trouble, if you'll be good enough to listen to it." "Despise you, Miss Philips! No, indeed; I know too much of my own evil heart to be despising any poor fellow-sinner." "Ah, that's just what I am and have been," she exclaimed vehemently; "a vile, miserable sinner.--You saw me to-day at poor Ned Taylor's funeral?" she added abruptly. "I did, miss; and I own it took me by surprise." "Well, Mr Bradly, I want to tell you to-night what brought me there. I know that Ned Taylor told you all about the bag, and the bracelet, and poor Joe Wright's death, because once when I called upon him in his illness, and found him alone, he said that he had confessed it all to you to ease his conscience, and that I had nothing to fear, for you were a prudent man, and would keep the story to yourself. I told him I was not afraid about that; and then we had a very serious talk together, and he begged me with many tears to forgive him for all the wicked words he had said in our house, and the bad example he had shown there; and he finished by begging and praying me to get out of the public-house and the business, where there were so many snares, and to care for my soul and a better world.