visitor; nor, and this is more remarkable, did he again that evening resume the subject of their previous conversation.  He spoke of matters connected with the world, from which he had been separated for half a century, but from whose turmoil the lady had only a few weeks before disentangled herself.  To a good churchman, the condition of the Church is always a subject of the deepest interest, as her prosperity is a source of gratitude and joy.  Tidings of the movement which had recently taken place in the very heart of the Establishment had already reached his secluded parish, filling him with doubt and apprehension.  He was glad to gain what further information his friendly visitor could afford him.  We may conclude, from the observations of the vicar, that her communication was unsatisfactory.

“It is a cowardly thing, madam,” said he, “to withdraw from a scene of contest in the hour of danger, and when all our dearest interests are at stake; and yet I do thank my God, from the bottom of my heart, that I am not an eyewitness to the dishonour and the shame which men are heaping on our blessed faith.  Are we Christians?  Do we come before the world as the messengers of glad tidings—­of unity and peace?  We profess to do it, whilst discord, enmity, hatred, and persecution are in our hearts and on our tongue.  The atheist and the worldling live in harmony, whilst the children of Christ carry on their unholy warfare one against the other.  Strange anomaly!  Can we not call upon our people to love their God with all their hearts—­and their neighbours as themselves?  Can we not strive by our own good example to teach them how to do this?  Would it not be more profitable and humane, than to disturb them with formalities that have no virtue in themselves—­to distress them with useless controversies, that settle no one point, teach no one doctrine, but unsettle and unfix all the good that our simple creed had previously built up and made secure?”

“It is very true, sir;—­and it is sweet to hear you talk so.”

If the lady desired to hear more, it was unwise of her to speak so plainly.  The vicar was unused to praise, and these few words effectually stopped him.  He said no more.  The lady remained silent for a minute or two, then rose and took her leave.  The night was very fine, and the vicar’s servant maid accompanied her to John Humphrys’ door.  Here she found a wholesome bed, but her pillow did not become a resting-place until she moistened it with tears—­the bitterest that ever wrung a penitent and broken heart.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTIVE