?"

"Oh, take me home, take me home," she cried, in a terrified whisper.
The noise of the band prevented others from hearing her words of
distress, and she was hidden from the rest of the company by a fold of
the tent.

"But what shall I say to Sir Thomas?" asked her father.

"Say nothing now, dear papa; let us get away from this--this dreadful
place--as quickly as we can. Send over a note, and say you took me home
because I was ill, as indeed I am--ill in body, sick to death in heart.
Dearest mamma, come with us; let us slip away at once."

So they made their way home swiftly and sadly--sadly, for the rector and
his wife had both now guessed the cause of their child's trouble; they
had heard something of the uproar, with sorrowful misgivings that Frank
was the guilty cause.

Unhappy Mary! When they reached home she threw herself into her loving
mother's arms, and poured out all her grief. A messenger was at once
dispatched to the hall with a note of apology for their abrupt
departure. It was, however, needless. The messenger brought back word
that, when the people had been gathered for the address, Frank Oldfield
had staggered forwards towards his father so hopelessly intoxicated,
that he had to be led away home between two of the servants. Sir Thomas
said a few hasty words to the assembled tenants and work-people,
expressing his great regret at his son's state, but excusing it on the
ground of his weakness after his illness, so that the great heat of the
weather had caused what he had taken to have an unusually powerful
effect upon him. In reply to Mr Oliphant's note, the squire made the
same excuse for his son, and trusted that Miss Oliphant would not take
to heart what had happened under such exceptional circumstances. But
Mary could not pass the matter over so lightly. She could not wipe out
from her memory that scene in the tent. She pressed her hand tightly
over her eyes, and shuddered as she thought of Frank standing there,
wild, coarse, debased, brutalised, a thing to make rude and vulgar
merriment; while the man, the gentleman, and the Christian had been
demonised out of that fair form by the drink. Oh, what bitter tears she
shed that night as she lay awake, racked with thoughts of the past and
despairing of the future. The next day came a penitential letter from
Frank; he threw himself on her pity--he had been overcome--he abhorred
himself for it--he saw his own weakness now--he would pray fo