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slight strangeness and
disorder about her appearance, which no stranger might have noticed,
but which could not fail to strike both of them. She looked dejected and
unhappy, and hid her face in her hands, as though she felt their gaze
upon her. The clergyman laid his hand upon Mrs. Bolton's arm with an
unconscious pressure, and looked earnestly into her clouded face.
"Look!" he said. "In Christ's name, I implore you to save her."
"I will do what I can," she answered impatiently, "but I cannot take
your way to do it; it is irrational."
"There is no other way," he said mournfully, "and I warn you of it."
CHAPTER IV.
A BABY'S GRAVE
Sophy Chantrey had strayed absently down to the churchyard in one of
those fits of restlessness and nervous despondency which made it
impossible to her to remain in the overcrowded rooms of Bolton Villa
or in the trim flower-garden surrounding it. There was a continual
vague sense of misery in her lot, which she had not strength enough to
cast off; but at this moment she was not consciously mourning either
for her lost little one or for the absence of her husband and boy. The
sharpness and bitterness of her trouble were dulled, and her brain was
confused. Even this was a relief from the heavy-heartedness that
oppressed her at other times, and she felt a comparative comfort in
sitting half-asleep by her child's grave, dreaming confusedly of happier
days. She started almost fretfully when Ann Holland's voice broke in
upon her drowsy languor.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Chantrey," she said, "but I thought I might
make bold to ask what news you've had from Mr. Chantrey in
Madeira?"

"David!" she answered absently; "David! Oh yes, I see. You are Miss
Holland, and he was always fond of you. Do you remember him
bringing me to see you just after our marriage? He is getting quite well
very fast, thank you. It is only eight months now till he comes home;
but that is a long time."
The tears had gathered in her blue eyes, and fell one after another down
her cheeks as she looked up pitifully into Ann Holland's kindly face.
"Ah! it is a long time, my dear," she replied, sitting down beside her,
though she had some dread of the damp grass; "but we must all of us
have patience, you know, and hope on, hope ever. Dear, dear! to think
how overjoyed he'll be, and how happy all the folks in Upton will be,
when he comes back! It was hard to part with him; but when we see
him again, strong and hearty, all that'll be forgot."
"Oh, I've missed him so!" cried Sophy, with a burst of tears; "I've been
so solitary without him or Charlie. You cannot think what it is.
Sometimes I feel as if they were both dead, and I was doomed to live
here without them for ever and ever. Everything seems ended. It is a
dreadful feeling."
"And then, dear love," said Ann Holland, in her quietest tones, "I know
you just fall down on your knees, and tell God all about it. That's how I
do when my poor brother behaves so bad, taking every penny, and
pawning or selling all he can lay hands on, to spend in drink. But you
know better than me, with all your learning, and music, and painting,
and pretty manners, let alone being a clergyman's wife; and when you
are that lonesome and sorrowful, you kneel down and tell God all about
it."
"No, no," sobbed Sophy, hiding her face again in her hands; "I am so
miserable--too miserable to be good, as I used to be when David was at
home."
The almost pleasant drowsiness was over now, and a swift tide of
thought and memory swept through her brain. The gulf on whose verge
she stood seemed to open before her, and she looked down into it

shudderingly. She could recollect the temptation assailing her once
before, when her baby died; but then her husband was beside her, and
his presence had saved her, though not even he had guessed at her
danger. What could save her now, alone, with a perpetual weariness of
spirit, and a feeling of physical weakness amounting to positive pain?
Yet if she went but a few steps forward, she would sink into the
gloomy depths, which for the moment her quickened conscience could
so clearly perceive. If David could but be at home now! If she could but
have her little son to occupy her time and thoughts!
"Dear, dear!" said Ann Holland's low and tender voice; "nobody's too
miserable for God not to love them. Why, a poor thing like me can love
my brother when he's