correct—­nothing more.  And if I tried to better the matter by explaining how I had offended them, would it not deepen the very hatred I had hoped to overcome?  In fact, I stood convicted before the tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certain good of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire to produce a conviction of Weir rather than in Weir, which should be triumphant after a melodramatic fashion, and—­must I confess it?—­should punish him for not believing in his son when I did; forgetting in my miserable selfishness that not to believe in his son was an unspeakably worse punishment in itself than any conviction or consequent shame brought about by the most overwhelming of stage-effects.  I assure my reader, I felt humiliated.

Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of mind from humility.  Humiliation no man can desire:  it is shame and torture.  Humility is the true, right condition of humanity—­peaceful, divine.  And yet a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, if he finds that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it has turned him right round, with his face away from pride, whither he was travelling, and towards humility, however far away upon the horizon’s verge she may sit waiting for him.  To me, however, there came a gentle and not therefore less effective dissolution of the bonds both of pride and humiliation; and before Weir and I met, I was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded spirit, as I was to work justice for his son.

I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast eyes, the one of conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away from the great house, which seemed to be staring after me down the avenue with all its window-eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came.  At a somewhat sharp turn, where the avenue changed into a winding road, Miss Oldcastle stood waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek, and the firmness of resolution upon her lips.  Once more I was startled by her sudden presence, but she did not smile.

“Mr Walton, what do you want me to do?  I would not willing refuse, if it is, as you say, really my duty to go with you.”

“I cannot be positive about that,” I answered.  “I think I put it too strongly.  But it would be a considerable advantage, I think, if you would go with me and let me ask you a few questions in the presence of Thomas Weir.  It will have more effect if I am able to tell him that I have only learned as yet that you were in the shop on that day, and refer him to you for the rest.”

“I will go.”

“A thousand thanks.  But how did you manage to—?”

Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question.

“You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma’s objection to my going?”

“I confess I am.  I should not have been surprised at Judy’s doing so, now.”

She was silent for a moment.

“Do you think obedience to parents is to last for ever?  The honour is, of course.  But I am surely old enough to be right in following my conscience at least.”