Jemima came in, ostensibly to seek for a book, but really from that sort of restless weariness of any one place or employment which had taken possession of her since Mr. Farquhar’s return.  She stood before the bookcase in the recess, languidly passing over the titles in search of the one she wanted.  Ruth’s voice lost a tone or two of its peacefulness, and her eyes looked more dim and anxious at Jemima’s presence.  She wondered in her heart if she dared to ask Miss Bradshaw to accompanying them in their expedition.  Eighteen months ago she would have urged it on her friend with soft, loving entreaty; now she was afraid even to propose it as a hard possibility; everything she did or said was taken so wrongly—­seemed to add to the old dislike, or the later stony contempt with which Miss Bradshaw had regarded her.  While they were in this way Mr. Bradshaw came into the room.  His entrance—­his being at home at all at this time—­was so unusual a thing, that the reading was instantly stopped; and all four involuntarily looked at him, as if expecting some explanation of his unusual proceeding.

His face was almost purple with suppressed agitation.

“Mary and Elizabeth, leave the room.  Don’t stay to pack up your books.  Leave the room, I say!” He spoke with trembling anger, and the frightened girls obeyed without a won A cloud passing over the sun cast a cold gloom into the room which was late so bright and beaming; but, by equalising the light, it took away the dark shadow from the place where Jemima had been standing, and her figure caught her father’s eye.

“Leave the room, Jemima,” said he.

“Why, father?” replied she, in an opposition that was strange even to herself, but which was prompted by the sullen passion which seethed below the stagnant surface of her life, and which sought a vent in defiance.  She maintained her ground, facing round upon her father, and Ruth—­Ruth, who had risen, and stood trembling, shaking, a lightning-fear having shown her the precipice on which she stood.  It was of no use; no quiet, innocent life—­no profound silence, even to her own heart, as to the Past; the old offence could never be drowned in the Deep; but thus, when all was calm on the great, broad, sunny sea, it rose to the surface, and faced her with its unclosed eyes and its ghastly countenance.  The blood bubbled up to her brain, and made such a sound there, as of boiling waters, that she did not hear the words which Mr. Bradshaw first spoke; indeed, his speech was broken and disjointed by intense passion.  But she needed not to hear; she knew.  As she rose up at first, so she stood now—­numb and helpless.  When her ears heard again (as if the sounds were drawing nearer, and becoming more distinct, from some faint, vague distance of space), Mr. Bradshaw was saying, “If there be one sin I hate—­I utterly loathe—­more than all others, it is wantonness.  It includes all other sins.  It is but of a piece that you