taught to regard them simply as enemies in this matter.  She loved her mother; but in this matter her mother was her declared enemy.  His voice, and his voice alone, could now reach her ears.  As to that great hereafter to which the clergyman had so flippantly alluded, he was content to leave that to herself.  Much as he differed from her as to details of a creed, he felt sure that she was safe there.  To his thinking, she was the purest human being that had ever come beneath his notice.  Whatever portion of bliss there may be for mankind in a life after this life, the fullest portion of that bliss would be hers, whether by reason of her creed or in spite of it.  Accustomed to think much of things, it was thus that he thought of her in reference to the world to come.  But as to this world, he was not quite so sure.  If she could die and have that other bliss at once, that would be best,—­only for the child, only for the child!  But he did doubt.  Would it do for her to ignore that verdict altogether, when his son should be released from jail, and be to him as though there had been no verdict?  Would not the finger of scorn be pointed at her;—­and, as he thought of it,—­possibly at future children?  Might it not be better for her to bow to the cruelty of Fate, and consent to be apart from him at any rate while that woman should be alive?  And again, if such would be better, then was it not clear that no time should be lost in beginning that new life?  If at last it should be ruled that she must go back to her mother, it would certainly be well that she should do so now, at once, so that people might know that she had yielded to the verdict.  In this way the stone was hollowed—­though the hollowing had not been made visible to the naked eye of Mr. Smirkie.

He was a man whose conscience did not easily let him rest when he believed that a duty was incumbent on him.  It was his duty now, he thought, not to bid her go, not to advise her to go,—­but to put before her what reasons there might be for her going.

‘I am telling you,’ he said, ‘what other people say.’

‘I do not regard what other people say.’

’That might be possible for a man, Hester, but a woman has to regard what the world says.  You are young, and may have a long life before you.  We cannot hide from ourselves the fact that a most terrible misfortune has fallen upon you, altogether undeserved but very grievous.’

‘God, when he gave me my husband,’ she replied, ’did me more good than any man can do me harm by taking him away.  I never cease to tell myself that the blessing is greater than the misfortune.’

‘But, my dearest——­’

’I know it all, father.  I know what you would tell me.  If I live here after he comes out of prison people will say that I am his mistress.’

‘Not that, not that,’ he cried, unable to bear the contumely of the word, even from her lips.

’Yes, father; that is what you mean.  That is what they all mean.  That is what mamma means, and Margaret.  Let them call me what they will.  It is not what they call me, but what I am.  It is bad for a woman to have evil said of her, but it is worse for her to do evil.  It is your house, and you, of course, can bid me go.’