These were the only words spoken between the pair.  Rapidly he strode down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with Gladys breathless by his side.

’I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry.  I was anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.’

With these words he hurried through the passage, and was going to his room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour.  He felt so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day.

’All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your sermon, and the way you managed everything.  Your aunt repeated it word for word to me, and it was just what I like.  This is the first comfort I have felt since—­’

Mrs Prothero pressed her son’s hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Thank you, mother, I am glad,’ was all Rowland could say.

’Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday.  You’ve got a character to lose now,’ said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the back.

‘Yes, father.  I will go and write it.’

‘Not to-night, Rowland,’ said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; ’you look pale and tired.  What is the matter?’

’Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear day.  We will talk to-morrow.  Good-night, dear mother.’

Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very cold, and that his hand trembled.

‘You are ill, Rowland?’

‘No, only tired.  I will come and see you again by-and-by.’

Rowland went to his room and bolted himself in.  He threw himself on a chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child.  He was seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish.  Yes, great.  Perhaps the greatest anguish of a life.  His arms on the table, his head on his arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he wished to die.  The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how?  So rudely, so cruelly, so heartlessly broken!  He could have borne it if there had been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.

‘Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!’ you say, some one who has never felt keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a passion unrequited.  Perhaps so.  But out of our great weakness sometimes grows our strength; out of our bitterest disappointments our sternest resolution.  By-and-by such weakness will strengthen; such folly will breed wisdom.

Thus Rowland remained for some time, with unkind and unholy thoughts and feelings rushing through his mind, like the howling winds through the air in a great storm.  Afterwards, he prayed humbly to be forgiven those devilish feelings of anger, pride, hatred of life and mistrust of God’s goodness that assailed him in that hour of misery.  But for the time, they were darting to and fro, and casting out every good thought, and hopeful purpose from his soul, like demons as they were.