e in
these worthy objects, and repeated the demand with a pertinacity that
implied suspicion. Then Mr. Beresford called upon Dr. Fynes, and showed
him the letters, and confessed to him that he never kept any accounts,
either of public or private expenditure. "I can construe Apollonius
Rhodius--with your assistance, sir," said he, "but I never could add up
pounds, shillings, and pence; far less divide them except amongst the
afflicted." "Take no notice of the cads," said Dr. Fynes. But Beresford
represented meekly that a clergyman's value and usefulness were gone
when once a slur was thrown upon him. Then Dr. Fynes gave him high
testimonials, and they parted with mutual regret.

It took Grace a day to get over her interview with Mr. Beresford; and
when with Jael's help she was calm again, she received a letter from
Coventry, indited in tones of the deepest penitence, but reminding
her that he had offered her his life, had made no resistance when she
offered to take it, and never would.

There was nothing in the letter that irritated her, but she saw in it an
attempt to open a correspondence. She wrote back:

"If you really repent your crimes, and have any true pity for the poor
creature whose happiness you have wrecked, show it by leaving this
place, and ceasing all communication with her."

This galled Coventry, and he wrote back:

"What! leave the coast clear to Mr. Little? No, Mrs. Coventry; no."

Grace made no reply, but a great terror seized her, and from that hour
preyed constantly on her mind--the fear that Coventry and Little would
meet, and the man she loved would do some rash act, and perhaps perish
on the scaffold for it.

This was the dominant sentiment of her distracted heart, when one day,
at eleven A.M., came a telegram from Liverpool:

"Just landed. Will be with you by four.

"HENRY LITTLE."

Jael found her shaking all over, with this telegram in her hand.

"Thank God you are with me!" she gasped. "Let me see him once more, and
die."

This was her first thought; but all that day she was never in the same
mind for long together. She would burst out into joy that he was really
alive, and she should see his face once more. Then she would cower with
terror, and say she dared not look him in the face; she was not worthy.
Then she would ask wildly, who was to tell him? What would become of
him?

"It would break his heart, or destroy his reason. After all he had done
and suffered for