about her mouth as she spoke and a curl in her nostrils as the eager words came from her, which almost made the selfish father give way.  Why had they not told him that she was such a one as this?  Why had not Henry himself spoken of the speciality of her beauty?  No man in England knew better than the archdeacon the difference between beauty of one kind and beauty of another kind in a woman’s face—­the one beauty, which comes from health and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to the miller’s daughter, and the other beauty, which shows itself in fine lines and a noble spirit—­the beauty which comes from breeding.  ’What you say does you very much honour indeed,’ said the archdeacon.

‘I should not mind at all about being poor,’ said Grace.

‘No; no; no,’ said the archdeacon.

’Poor as we are—­and no clergyman, I think, was ever so poor—­I should have done as your son asked me at once, if it had been only that—­because I love him.’

‘If you love him you will not wish to injure him.’

‘I will not injure him.  Sir, there is my promise.’  And now as she spoke she rose from her chair, and standing close to the archdeacon, laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat.  ’There is my promise.  As long as people say that papa stole the money, I will never marry your son.  There.’

The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slight touch of her fingers, raised his arm a little as though to welcome the pressure.  He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly towards his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept.  It would have been a sacrilege—­he felt that it would have been a sacrilege—­to doubt such a promise.  He almost relented.  His soft heart, which was never very well under his own control, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son’s behalf, he acquitted her of the promise.  What could any man’s son do better than have such a woman for his wife?  It would have been of no avail had he made her such offer.  The pledge she had given had not been wrung from her by his influence, nor could his influence have availed aught with her towards the alteration of her purpose.  It was not the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her duty to take disgrace into the house of the man she loved.  As he looked down upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, and gradually trickled down his old nose.  ’My dear,’ he said, ’if this cloud passes away from you, you shall come to us and be our daughter.’  And thus he also pledged himself.  There was a dash of generosity about the man, in spite of his selfishness, which always made him desirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to him.  He would fain that his gifts should be bigger, if it were possible.  He longed at this moment to tell her that the dirty cheque should go for nothing.  He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossible for him to speak in her presence of that which moved her so greatly.