'Are you certain?' 'If God shall please, I am certain.' 'And you will take charge of a letter? Perhaps, too, you could see him yourself; and tell him--you see I trust you with everything-- that my fortune, his own fortune, depends on his being here to- morrow morning. He must start to-night, sir--to-night, tell him, if there were twenty Miss Lavingtons in Whitford--or he is a ruined man!' The letter was written, and put into the vicar's hands, with a hundred entreaties from the terrified banker. A cab was called, and the clergyman rattled off to the railway terminus. 'Well,' said he to himself, 'God has indeed blessed my errand; giving, as always, "exceeding abundantly more than we are able to ask or think!" For some weeks, at least, this poor lamb is safe from the destroyer's clutches. I must improve to the utmost those few precious days in strengthening her in her holy purpose. But, after all, he will return, daring and cunning as ever; and then will not the fascination recommence?' And, as he mused, a little fiend passed by, and whispered, 'Unless he comes up to-night, he is a ruined man.' It was Friday, and the vicar had thought it a fit preparation for so important an errand to taste no food that day. Weakness and hunger, joined to the roar and bustle of London, had made him excited, nervous, unable to control his thoughts, or fight against a stupifying headache; and his self-weakened will punished him, by yielding him up an easy prey to his own fancies. 'Ay,' he thought, 'if he were ruined, after all, it would be well for God's cause. The Lavingtons, at least, would find no temptation in his wealth: and Argemone--she is too proud, too luxurious, to marry a beggar. She might embrace a holy poverty for the sake of her own soul; but for the gratification of an earthly passion, never! Base and carnal delights would never tempt her so far.' Alas, poor pedant! Among all that thy books taught thee, they did not open to thee much of the depths of that human heart which thy dogmas taught thee to despise as diabolic. Again the little fiend whispered,-- 'Unless he comes up to-night, he is a ruined man.' 'And what if he is?' thought the vicar. 'Riches are a curse; and poverty a blessing. Is it not his wealth which is ruining his soul? Idleness and fulness of bread have made him what he is--a luxurious and self-willed dreamer, battening on his own fancies. Were it not rather a boon to him to take from him the root of all evil?' Most true, vicar. And yet the devil was at that moment transforming himself into an angel of light for thee. But the vicar was yet honest. If he had thought that by cutting off his right hand he could have saved Lancelot's soul (by canonical methods, of course; for who would wish to save souls in any other?), he would have done it without hesitation. Again the little fiend whispered,-- 'Unless he comes up to-night he is a ruined man.'