she would live. He knew also that as she had not been more than three minutes in the water, and had not been immediately submerged, there was good hope, if the means of restoration were at hand; and failing them, he could only do his best. Now the men of the mill had long gone home, but the mill stood open, and there were still some embers of a fire which had been left burning for him by his friendly parishioner; so he carried the girl quickly thither, threw his large boating-cloak and such wraps as he had with him over her, and did all things needful, till her fluttering breath gradually returned, and Madge, opening her eyes, looked wondering around her. In less than half-an-hour she was completely restored to consciousness; and, having been so short a while in the water, was able to return home.

The good gentleman, with the innate delicacy and chivalry of a Christian mind, forbore to ask her any questions; and when she would have given him an explanation he stayed her softly, and sought with words of true and lofty charity to calm her trouble, be it what it might to raise her up again in her own esteem, as a human soul, precious to all the world in the possibilities of the future, to him, a Minister of the Church, most precious, most revered. A cardinal speaking to an empress had not chosen better, simpler, or more respectful language. When the colour gradually came back to her cheeks, and he saw that she was recovered, and quite quiet and resigned in manner, he knelt down, bidding her in solemn accents to do likewise, and prayed fervently in the brief and affecting words familiar to him through years passed in bearing consolation to the afflicted of his congregation:

"O Lord God, who hast wounded us for our sins, and consumed us for our transgressions, by Thy late heavy and dreadful visitation, and now, in the midst of judgment remembering mercy, hast redeemed our souls from the jaws of death; we offer unto Thy fatherly goodness ourselves, our souls and bodies, which Thou hast delivered, to be a living sacrifice unto Thee, always praising and magnifying Thy mercies in the midst of Thy Church, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

And having prayed thus, giving to the Most High the glory of her miraculous preservation, he rose from his knees and blessed her mutely, forbearing to intrude on her when he could no longer be of use, and contenting himself by watching her unseen when she left the mill, lest she should faint or fall down by the way. But she arrived safely at her home, about two hours after she had quitted it, and passed unquestioned through the open door into her chamber, where all was still.

CHAPTER X.

WHAT HAPPENS.

MR. MOWLEDY was very ill for some days after he had bravely rescued the drowning girl, and it is one of the many inexplicable things in this world,

that heroic actions are seldom performed with impunity. His wet clothes had avenged themselves on him for their untimely ruin, and struck him down with an unseen blow, which brought on fever and ague, leaving him to reflect, in that condition, that Virtue is verily its own reward.

Meanwhile affairs at the "Chequers" resumed their former aspect, and went on absolutely as if nothing had happened. Madge did not recover her cheerfulness for long afterwards; but she went about her work, and seemed to take a pleasure in it, or to find relief from bodily exertion. She was peaceful enough if left alone, but sullen and even defiant if any one interfered with her. Several times also she asserted her independence in express terms, which troubled John Giles not a little. She reminded him that she was not his daughter, that she was naught to him, nor he to her, but a friend, and she added that she was minded to earn her own living and to see the world. She expressed a desire to take service in London town, and asked the brewer's man, when he came with his gigantic horses and his casks, if he knew of a place for a hard-working girl" anywheers," it did not matter in what house or city. He answered that he knew of no such place, and that it would be uneasy to come at on account of the hardness of the times, which ever gives and will give a short and civil reply to an unwelcome request; and he told her, being nudged thereto by Giles, that she did not know when she was well off. Then she turned to Tom Brown, in her restless desire to be gone, and ordered him to find a place for her, begging him with sighs and tears to lose no time about it.

The poor fellow thrust his knuckles in his eyes at the bare thought of losing her, and besought her in his rough way to tell him if any of her neighbours had given her occasion to be angry, that he might right her with his fist and tongue. He would give them a piece of his mind, he confidently said, (he did not think how small it was,) and thump them into their senses. It is the English plan, and not an evil one; for sense compelled by blows is wondrously discreet and modest.

But she said nothing in return. She seemed subdued and sad. Indeed, she was becoming perplexed and half distraught in her trouble. She had tried, she alone knew how desperately, to put an end to it, perhaps by death itself, if her secret could be known, afterwards by flight. Both means had failed her; and, like a bird caught in the toils of the fowler, now she fluttered in a passion of fear and woe, now cowered timidly, and ceased to struggle.

She was

So it happened that when Tom Brown came into the kitchen that night, the girl's feelings were dull and blunted with overwear. not ill, but she was weak and listless. Her poor honest working hands hung down beside her, and she could no longer collect her thoughts. She felt a little light-headed, and wondered in a hazy, half-unconscious way, whether she should ever be like the idiot girl who went about with straws in her hair last harvest.

She took no notice of Tom Brown, but let him sit down by the fireside

and talk to her as he would. He looked like some good watch-dog keeping guard over her, and his rude speech was little better than a wellmeaning growl, coming from a faithful heart, which would have bled or broke to please her.

"Madge," cried the simple fellow at last, and there was a natural pathos in his coarse appeal, "Oi carn't a stond it no mawer. I'll go an' list for a sodjer an you wun't tayk oi wan oi axes yow. Oi'd ha' mayd yow a honist mon an you wud wed. An' thow ut bain't fur t' bee, thar be a mattur o' twentee pund I ha' seaved oop-doee tayk t' blunt. I' be onder t' hyrick yunder."

The good lout shook and blubbered like a boy as he spoke, for he was in grim earnest, and he took up his lantern to leave her for ever; when she, with a scared aspect and mien like that of one interrogated while walking in sleep, asked him what he would have of her; and when he told her again and again, till she understood his meaning, she cried and wrung her hands till the blood started between the nails of them.

He stole gently up to her with untaught affection, and talked to her in homely phrase of the childhood they had passed together, and of the many times and oft he had held her on his knees as a little mite no bigger than his arm; till first she smiled, betrayed into forgetfulness for a moment by the deceiver Memory, and then she sobbed convulsively, answering him in gasps. Any one, she said, might wed with such a thing as she was, if they had a mind for their bargain. The parson, the blacksmith, or he. It was all the same to her. She only wanted a morsel of bread, and could work for it. She thanked God for that. She would be beholden to nobody. Her voice as she spoke was sometimes hard and even fierce, sometimes hushed and supplicating. She hardly seemed to know what she was saying, and her mind wandered from one subject to another. She told him she did not care what became of her, or of him; and that she did not like him, or ever could like him; and then she clung to his arm, and went into hysterics.

By-and-by she was quite worn out and as weak as an infant. He pressed her again in plain words to wed with him, and she submitted passively, saying little; but before they parted it was settled between them that he might have the banns put up on the following Sunday. She confessed that she had attempted to kill herself, but would try to make him a true wife if he could forgive her; and she thought she had told him all, while his dull comprehension suspected nothing. She was but an inarticulate village girl, and he an ignorant country bumpkin. Such mistakes sometimes occur between more lettered people, and few shall read the mysteries of the soul through the dark glass of language.

An hour before she had fought angrily against the joyless fate which pursued her so unrelentingly. Now it had overtaken her, for better or for worse she was humble and submissive to it. The strife was over, and she had yielded. She warmed Tom Brown's beer, spiced it with nutmeg, and put a roasted apple in it, as she used to do on holidays before the

stranger huntsman came. kissed him as she bade him good-night. Then she walked quietly, with dry eyelids, to her room, and slept soundly the sleep of utter exhaustion.

She lit his lantern when he went away, and

CHAPTER XI.

THE VILLAGE CURATE.

TOM BROWN dressed himself in his best, with a flowery waistcoat, short trowsers crumpled at the knees, and a coat much too large for him; he took a nosegay in his hand, and he went with shambling steps and sheepish gait to see the parson. John Giles, who had a fuddled notion of what was going on, and had a generally intoxicated or maudlin regard for his wife's kinsman, felt pleased to keep Madge and him about the house, and saw no reason why they should not marry as he himself had done. The pair walked on in silence at about the same pace, though John Giles waddled, puffing as he went for want of breath, and the younger man slouched along covering a yard each step. They kept wide apart, though their dispositions were so amicable; but John Giles having indulged one of his small gooseberry-coloured eyes with a movement not unlike a wink at starting, Tom felt at a disadvantage, and turned his shamefaced head half over his shoulder to escape from banter which seemed to tickle him beyond endurance. He liked, yet dreaded, and flinched from it. He knew that Giles, who loved his joke, was watching slyly to poke him in the ribs and talk of Madge. The dull man had no other way of being funny; and Tom Brown could appreciate such wit, and give and take a jest as Giles had often proved. The distance which Tom observed between them was after all but a cunning trick of fence, and John was sure to have his thrust before the day was out.

Thus, each on guard, yet both well pleased, they came to the-parson's gate, and Tom Brown rang the bell.

John hit him in a moment then. "Fayth," he chuckled, “ye be arl reddy wi' t'ring, Tummus."

"Un bain't rownd t' ring, be it?" muttered red-cheeked Tummus, giv-ing himself a crick in the neck by his spasmodic efforts to escape his tickler. John Giles's humour was not very abundant, but it was longwinded to a proverb. Having once got his joke he would never let it go, but hit you on the same place with it for years. He laughed till he was almost black in the face about Tom having got his wedding-ring for nothing, said he should never want a dinner while he bore off the bell-a phrase which had more meaning in it than he thought, and he would have jeered on till night now Tom was at his mercy and could not stride away, but Mr. Mowledy called to them from his window to go in.

They disputed who should cross the threshold first, and shoved each other forward by the shoulders according to the forms of rural ceremony.

Tom Brown, who was the stronger, pushed in John at last, and having taken off their hats and wiped their brows, they stared before them; then they pulled each other by their coat-skirts, which were long and ample, because they liked their money's worth from the tailor, and he gave it with an upright mind, as both were ready to avouch.

The parson mildly asked them why they came together, or why they came at all, and hoped that nothing had gone ill with them or theirs at the inn. It was not Sunday, and the worthy man marvelled to see them there in such array, twiddling their thumbs and all abroad, so big with speech and yet unable to bring forth.

They said that nothing had gone ill with them, and John assured the parson it was a fine frosty day.

Tom, thus encouraged, added that there had been a deal of rain last month.

The parson answered "yes" to these remarks, and then the conversation stopped, till John observed, "that frost was a better thing for the roads than heavy snowfalls."

"Ay, zur," said Tom, "especially when un thaws."

The parson smiled, though he was still ailing and confined to the house by racking rheumatism. Experience had long since taught him not to hurry any man's cattle; so he waited with a placid, benevolent expression which was habitual to his features in repose, for that which Providence might send him next.

Tom Brown looked up

Providence sent him nothing for ten minutes. at the ceiling, and John Giles got back his breath, which had been pumped out by chuckling. The Curate's cat purred as she lay on the scanty rug by the fire, and the pale beams of a wintry sun fell athwart the motes in the sordid chamber, casting a deeper shadow on its unpapered walls and common furniture. It is a beautiful superstition which preserves the belief that an angel passes wherever there is silence. Perhaps an angel was passing then, for the Curate had need that angels should minister unto him. He had heard in his time the message which comes to us all from the Evil One, and might have chosen the things of this world had he willed it. If he had said to Satan, "Get thee hence," it was but merciful he should now be comforted.

At last John Giles unburthened his bosom of the momentous tidings that Tom Brown and Madge were to be asked in church next Sunday.

The blow was struck full on the good man's heart, and it fell like an axe on tender wood. It was well that the God of love had sent an angel to him then.

Mr. Mowledy shaded his eyes with his hand and turned away from the light. He went to his bookcase, where he kept some manuscript sermons and copies of the parish registers, and he prayed silently. When he spoke to his visitors again, his face wore an unearthly garb of pallor, but upon it was a divine light: it might have been a ray of that eternal glory which illumined the brow of Israel's lawgiver when he came from communion