m to that
man!'

'Child, child, victories sometimes come this way!' he cried, scarce
knowing how it was put into his mouth, but glad to see the light in her
eye.

'Thanks,' she replied. 'No, I ought not to have said that. I leave
him to God, and my poor Nuttie. I want you to tell her, if I can't,
what she must try to do. If I had but brought them together more! But
I tried for the best.'

Then she begged for her last communion, saying, 'I do pray for that
poor Gregorio. Isn't that forgiving him?' And the attempt to exchange
forgiveness with the Canon for their mutual behaviour at the time of
her marriage overcame them both so much that they had to leave it not
half uttered. Indeed, in speaking of the scene, William Egremont was
utterly overwhelmed.

'And that's the woman that I treated as a mere outcast!' he cried,
walking about the little room. 'Oh God, forgive me! I shall never
forgive myself.'

Poor Miss Headworth! In past days she had longed for any amount of
retribution on Alice's hard-hearted employers, but it was a very
different thing to witness such grief and self reproach. He had in
truth much more developed ideas of duty, both as man and priest, than
when he had passively left a disagreeable subject to his mother-in-law,
as lying within a woman's province; and his good heart was suffering
acutely for the injustice and injury in which he had shared towards one
now invested with an almost saintly halo.

In the gush of feeling he had certainly revealed more to Miss
Headworth, than his wife, or even he himself, in his cooler moments,
would have thought prudent, and he ended by binding her to secrecy; and
saying that he should only tell his niece what was necessary for her to
know.

Nuttie was going about, dry-eyed and numbed, glad of any passing
occupation that would prevent the aching sense of desolation at her
heart from gaining force to overwhelm her; courting employment, and
shunning pity and condolence, but she could not escape when her uncle
took her hand, made her sit down by him, with 'I want to speak to you,
my dear;' and told her briefly and tenderly what her mother's effort
had been, and of the message and task she had bequeathed. The poor
girl's heart fainted within her.

'Oh! but, Uncle William, how can I? How can I ever? Mother could do
things I never could! He _did_ care for her! He does not care for me!'

'You must teach him to do so, Nuttie.'

'Oh!' she said, with a