“And he said, Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy Kingdom.  And He said unto him, Verily, I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise."

The rector’s voice, in its awed monotony, dwelt insistently on each word, then paused. “To-day,” whispered Mary, caressing Minta’s hand, while the tears streamed down her cheeks; “he repented, Minta, and the Lord took him to Himself—­at once—­forgiving all his sins.”

Mrs. Hurd gave no sign, but the dark figure on the other side of the cottage made an involuntary movement, which threw down a fire-iron, and sent a start through Willie’s wasted body.  The reader resumed; but perfect spontaneity was somehow lost both for him and for Mary.  Marcella’s stormy presence worked in them both, like a troubling leaven.

Nevertheless, the priest went steadily through his duty, dwelling on every pang of the Passion, putting together every sacred and sublime word.  For centuries on centuries his brethren and forerunners had held up the Man of Sorrows before the anguished and the dying; his turn had come, his moment and place in the marvellous never-ending task; he accepted it with the meek ardour of an undoubting faith.

“And all the multitudes that came together to this sight, when they beheld the things that were done, returned, smiting their breasts.”

He closed the book, and bent forward, so as to bring his voice close to the wife’s ear.

“So He died—­the Sinless and the Just—­for you, for your husband.  He has passed through death—­through cruel death; and where He has gone, we poor, weak, stained sinners can follow,—­holding to Him.  No sin, however black, can divide us from Him, can tear us from His hand in the dark waters, if it be only repented,—­thrown upon His Cross.  Let us pray for your husband, let us implore the Lord’s mercy this night—­this hour!—­upon his soul.”

A shudder of remembrance passed through Marcella.  The rector knelt; Mrs. Hurd lay motionless, save for deep gasps of struggling breath at intervals; Ann Mullins sobbed loudly; and Mary Harden wept as she prayed, lost in a mystical vision of the Lord Himself among them—­there on the cottage floor—­stretching hands of pity over the woman beside her, showing His marred side and brow.

Marcella alone sat erect, her whole being one passionate protest against a faith which could thus heap all the crimes and responsibilities of this too real earth on the shadowy head of one far-off Redeemer.  “This very man who prays,” she thought, “is in some sort an accomplice of those who, after tempting, are now destroying, and killing, because they know of nothing better to do with the life they themselves have made outcast.”

And she hardened her heart.