“You are probably aware, madam, that my brother has communicated”—­

“Every thing.  Your people are poor and ignorant.  I can be useful to them.  Reduced as I am, I may afford them help.  I may instruct the children—­attend the sick—­relieve the hungry.  Can I do this?”

“Pardon me, dear lady.  I am loth to repress the noble impulses by which you are actuated.  It would be very wrong to deny the value and importance of such aid; but I must entreat you to remember your former life and habits.  I fear this place is not what you expect it.  In the midst of my people, and withdrawn from all society, I have accustomed myself to seek for consolation in the faithful discharge of my duties, and in communion with the chosen friends of my youth whom you see around me.  You are not aware of what you undertake.  There will be no companionship for you—­no female friend—­no friend but myself.  Our villagers are labouring men and women—­our population consists of such alone.  Think what you have been, and what you must resign.”

The lady sighed deeply, and answered—­

“It is, Mr Littleton, just because I cannot forget what I have been, that I come here to make amends for past neglect and sinfulness.  I have a debt there, sir”—­and she pointed solemnly towards the sky—­“which must be paid.  I have been an unfaithful steward, and must be reconciled to my good master ere I die.  You may trust me.  You know my income and my means.  It is trifling; comparatively speaking—­nothing.  Yet, less than half of it must suffice for my support.  The rest is for your flock.  You shall distribute it, and you shall teach me how to minister to their temporal necessities—­how to labour for their eternal glory.  The world and I have parted, and for ever.”

“I will not oppose you further madam.  You shall make the trial if you please, and yet”—­the vicar hesitated.

“Pray speak, sir,” said the lady.

“I was thinking of your accommodation.  Here I could not well receive you—­and I know no other house becoming”—­

“Do not mock me, Mr Littleton.  A room in the cot of your poorest parishioner is more than I deserve—­more than the good fishermen of Galilee could sometimes find.  Think of me, I beg, as I am—­not as I have been.”

As the lady spoke, a servant-maid entered the apartment with the supper-tray, which the good vicar had ordered shortly after the arrival of his guest.  During the repast, it was arranged that the lady should pass the night in the cottage of John Humphrys, a man acknowledged to be the most industrious in the village, and who had become the especial favourite of the vicar, by marrying, as the latter jocosely termed it, into his family.  John Humphrys’ wife had been the vicar’s housekeeper.  The Reverend Hugh Littleton was a bachelor, and had always been most cautious and discreet.  Although he had a bed to spare, he did not think of offering it to his handsome