ting how many Sundays it would
possibly be before I heard my son Harold's voice there again."

Harold moved restlessly.

"What say you, Olive, my dear?" continued Mrs. Gwynne. "Will it not be a
pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will
he be able to preach?"

"I cannot tell," answered Olive, in a low voice; and she looked
anxiously at her betrothed. For well she knew his heart, and well she
guessed that though that heart was pure and open in the sight of God and
in _her_ sight, it might not be so in that of every man. And although
his faith was now the Christian faith--even, in many points, that of the
Church--still Olive doubted whether he would ever be a Church of England
minister again. No wonder that she watched his face in anxious love, and
then looked from him to his mother, who, all unconscious, continued to
speak.

"In truth, all your parishioners will be glad to have you back. Even
Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday; and noticing that it was a whole
year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence! Of
course, it could not be helped; still it was rather a pity. Please God,
it shall not happen again--shall it, Harold?"

"Mother--mother!" His hands were crushed together, and with a look of
pain. Olive stole to his side.

"Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave
you to sleep?"

"Hush, Olive! hush!" he whispered. "I have thought of this before. I
knew I must tell it to her--all the truth."

"But not now--not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week--a day."

"No, not an hour. It is right!"

"What are you talking to my son about?" said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick
jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.

Neither of the betrothed spoke.

"You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!"

"My mother--my noble, self-denying, mother!" murmured Harold, as if
thinking aloud. "Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!"

"Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in
your mind--anything I do not know?" And her eyes--still tender, yet with
a half-formed suspicion--were fixed searchingly on her son. And when,
as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs.
Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.

"Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to
interpose between me and my son."

Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she--as