'Father,' replied the curate, quietly, 'you seem to forget that I love
Bell dearly. It was not to close Mosk's mouth that I consented to marry
her; in any case I should do so. She promised to become my wife in her
time of prosperity, and I should be the meanest of men did I leave her
now that she is in trouble. Bell was dear to me before; she is dearer to
me now; and I am proud to become her husband.'

'But her father is a murderer, Gabriel!'

'Would you make her responsible for his sins? That is not like you,
father.'

The bishop groaned. 'God knows I do not wish to thwart you, for you have
been a good son to me. But reflect for one moment how public her
father's crime has been; everywhere his wickedness is known; and should
you marry this girl, your wife, however innocent, must bear the stigma
of being that man's daughter. How would you, a sensitive and refined man
shrinking from public scandal, bear the shame of hearing your wife
spoken about as a murderer's daughter?'

'I shall take steps to avert that danger. Yes, father, when Bell becomes
my wife we shall leave England for ever.'

'Gabriel! Gabriel!' cried the bishop, piteously, 'where would you go?'

'To the South Seas,' replied the curate, his thin face lighting up with
excitement; 'there, as Baltic tells us, missionaries are needed for the
heathen. I shall become a missionary, father, and Bell will work by my
side to expiate her father's sin by aiding me to bring light to those
lost in darkness.'

'My poor boy, you dream Utopia. From what I saw of that girl, she is not
one to take up such a life. You will not find your Priscilla in her. She
is of the world, worldly.'

'The affliction which has befallen her may turn her thoughts from the
world.'

'No!' said the bishop, with quiet authority. 'I am, as you know, a man
who does not speak idly or without experience, and I tell you, Gabriel,
that the girl is not the stuff out of which you can mould an ideal wife.
She is handsome, I grant you; and she seems to be gifted with a fair
amount of common sense; but, if you will forgive my plain speaking of
one dear to you, she is vain of her looks, fond of dress and admiration,
and is not possessed of a refined nature. She says that she loves you;
that may be; but you will find that she does not love you sufficiently
to merge her life in yours, to condemn herself to exile amongst savages
for your sake. Love and single companionship are not enough for such an
one