’Bell! you’re not to think, that if I could have foreseen all that would come of my change of opinion, and my resignation of my living—­no! not even if I could have known how she would have suffered,—­that I would undo it—­the act of open acknowledgment that I no longer held the same faith as the church in which I was a priest.  As I think now, even if I could have foreseen that cruellest martyrdom of suffering, through the sufferings of one whom I loved, I would have done just the same as far as that step of openly leaving the church went.  I might have done differently, and acted more wisely, in all that I subsequently did for my family.  But I don’t think God endued me with over-much wisdom or strength,’ he added, falling hack into his old position.

Mr. Bell blew his nose ostentatiously before answering.  Then he said: 

’He gave you strength to do what your conscience told you was right; and I don’t see that we need any higher or holier strength than that; or wisdom either.  I know I have not that much; and yet men set me down in their fool’s books as a wise man; an independent character; strong-minded, and all that cant.  The veriest idiot who obeys his own simple law of right, if it be but in wiping his shoes on a door-mat, is wiser and stronger than I. But what gulls men are!’

There was a pause.  Mr. Hale spoke first, in continuation of his thought: 

‘About Margaret.’

‘Well! about Margaret.  What then?’

‘If I die——­’

‘Nonsense!’

’What will become of her—­I often think?  I suppose the Lennoxes will ask her to live with them.  I try to think they will.  Her aunt Shaw loved her well in her own quiet way; but she forgets to love the absent.’

‘A very common fault.  What sort of people are the Lennoxes?’

’He, handsome, fluent, and agreeable.  Edith, a sweet little spoiled beauty.  Margaret loves her with all her heart, and Edith with as much of her heart as she can spare.’

’Now, Hale; you know that girl of yours has got pretty nearly all my heart.  I told you that before.  Of course, as your daughter, as my god-daughter, I took great interest in her before I saw her the last time.  But this visit that I paid to you at Milton made me her slave.  I went, a willing old victim, following the car of the conqueror.  For, indeed, she looks as grand and serene as one who has struggled, and may be struggling, and yet has the victory secure in sight.  Yes, in spite of all her present anxieties, that was the look on her face.  And so, all I have is at her service, if she needs it; and will be hers, whether she will or no, when I die.  Moreover, I myself, will be her preux chevalier, sixty and gouty though I be.  Seriously, old friend, your daughter shall be my principal charge in life, and all the help that either my wit or my wisdom or my willing heart can give, shall be hers.  I don’t choose her out as a subject for fretting.  Something, I know of old, you must have to worry yourself about, or you wouldn’t be happy.  But you’re going to outlive me by many a long year.  You spare, thin men are always tempting and always cheating Death!  It’s the stout, florid fellows like me, that always go off first.’