But the thunder did not affect Molly one whit.

“You may do what you will to me, sir; but you have heard the truth.  You are a tyrant to those you love:  and now in your tyranny you are going to do what even in your tyranny you have never done before—­a downright wickedness.  Thwarted abroad, you have drunk of power at home till you have come to persuade yourself that our souls are yours.  They are not.  You may condemn Hetty to misery as you have driven—­yes, driven—­her to sin:  but her soul is not yours and this secret of hers is mine not yours!”

But here standing beside the table she began to sway, then to sob and laugh unnaturally.  Mrs. Wesley, instantly composed at sight of a physical breakdown, stepped to her and caught her by both wrists, but not before she had pointed a finger point-blank at her father’s gray face.

“But—­but—­he is ridiculous!” she gasped between her short outcries.  “Look at him!  A ridiculous little man!”

Her mother took her by both shoulders and forced her from the room, almost carried her upstairs, dashed cold water over her face and left her to sob out her hysterics on her bed.  It had been a weak, undignified exit:  but those last words, which she never remembered to have uttered, her father never forgot.  In all the rest of her short life Molly never had a sign from him that he remembered her outbreak.  Also he never again spoke a harsh word to her.

While her mother bent over her, waiting for the attack to subside, a knock sounded below stairs.  Molly heard it, raised herself on the bed for a moment, staring wildly, then sank back helpless, and her moaning began afresh.

Mrs. Wesley turned her face away quickly; and with that her gaze, passing out through the garret window, fell on a figure crossing the yard towards the house.

It was Hetty, moving to the sacrifice.  And below, on the other side of the house, the man was knocking to claim her.

For a moment Mrs. Wesley felt as one in a closing trap.  It was she, not Hetty, upon whom these iron teeth of fate were meeting; and Hetty, the true victim, had become part of the machine of punishment.  The illusion passed almost as quickly as it had come, and with a glance at the figure on the bed she hurried downstairs, in time to meet Hetty at the back door.

As she opened it she heard William Wright’s footstep in the passage behind, and his shuffling halt outside the study door, while Jane, the servant, rapped for admittance.

Hetty, too, heard it, and bent her head.

“We had best go in at once,” Mrs. Wesley suggested, desperately anxious now to come to the worst and get it over.

Hetty bent her head again and followed without a word.  The two men were standing—­the Rector by his writing-table, Mr. Wright a little inside the door.  He drew aside to let the two ladies pass and waited, fumbling with his hat and stick and eyeing the pattern of the carpet.  There was no boldness about him.  It seemed he dared not look at Hetty.