“He saved my life,” said Juliet to herself, “and that it is which has brought him to this.  He has a claim to me.  I am his property.  He found me a castaway on the shore of Death, and gave me his life to live with.  He must not suffer where I can prevent it.”—­She was on the point of yielding.

The same moment she heard a step in the lane approaching the door.

“If you love me, do go now, dear Mr. Faber,” she said.  “I will see you again.  Do not urge me further to-night.—­Ah, I wish!  I wish!” she added, with a deep sigh, and ceased.

The steps came up to the door.  There came a knock at it.  They heard Lisbeth go to open it.  Faber rose.

“Go into the drawing-room,” said Juliet.  “Lisbeth may be coming to fetch me; she must not see you here.”

He obeyed.  Without a word he left the chamber, and went into the drawing-room.  He had been hardly a moment there, when Wingfold entered.  It was almost dark, but the doctor stood against the window, and the curate knew him.

“Ah, Faber!” he said, “it is long since I saw you.  But each has been about his work, I suppose, and there could not be a better reason.”

“Under different masters, then,” returned Faber, a little out of temper.

“I don’t exactly think so.  All good work is done under the same master.”

“Pooh!  Pooh!”

“Who is your master, then?”

“My conscience.  Who is yours?”

“The Author of my conscience.”

“A legendary personage!”

“One who is every day making my conscience harder upon me.  Until I believed in Him, my conscience was dull and stupid—­not half-awake, indeed.”

“Oh!  I see You mean my conscience is dull and stupid.”

“I do not.  But if you were once lighted up with the light of the world, you would pass just such a judgment on yourself.  I can’t think you so different from myself, as that that shouldn’t be the case; though most heartily I grant you do your work ten times better than I did.  And all the time I thought myself an honest man!  I wasn’t.  A man may honestly think himself honest, and a fresh week’s experience may make him doubt it altogether.  I sorely want a God to make me honest.”

Here Juliet entered the room, greeted Mr. Wingfold, and then shook hands with Faber.  He was glad the room was dark.

“What do you think, Miss Meredith—­is a man’s conscience enough for his guidance?” said the curate.

“I don’t know any thing about a man’s conscience,” answered Juliet.

“A woman’s then?” said the curate.

“What else has she got?” returned Juliet.

The doctor was inwardly cursing the curate for talking shop.  Only, if a man knows nothing so good, so beautiful, so necessary, as the things in his shop, what else ought he to talk—­especially if he is ready to give them without money and without price?  The doctor would have done better to talk shop too.