rtisements in the newspapers."

The present doctor had bought the practice abandoned by Mrs. Ambrose's
son-in-law. He had paid well for it, but his religious principles had not
formed a part of the bargain.

"It is of no use to cry over spilt milk, my dear."

"I do not mean to. No, I never do. But it is very unpleasant to have such
people about. I really hope Tom Judd will not lose his next baby. When
is John coming?"

"To-morrow. My dear, if I forget it this morning, will you remember to
speak to Reynolds about the calf?"

"Certainly, Augustin," said his wife. Therewith the good vicar left her
and went to bury Tom Judd's baby, divided in his mind between rejoicing
over his favourite pupil's success and lamenting, as he sincerely did,
the misfortunes which befell his parishioners. When he left the
churchyard an hour later he was met by Martha, who came from the cottage
with a message begging that the vicar would come to Mrs. Goddard as soon
as possible. Martha believed her mistress was ill, she wanted to see Mr.
Ambrose at once. Without returning to the vicarage he turned to the left
towards the cottage.

Mrs. Goddard had slept that night, being exhausted and almost broken down
with fatigue. But she woke only to a sense of the utmost pain and
distress, realising that to-day's anxiety was harder to bear than
yesterday's, and that to-morrow might bring forth even worse disasters
than those which had gone before. Her position was one of extreme doubt
and peril. To tell any one that her husband was in the neighbourhood
seemed to be equivalent to rooting out the very last remnant of
consideration for him which remained in her heart, the very last trace of
what had once been the chief joy and delight of her life. She hesitated
long. There is perhaps nothing in human nature more enduring than the
love of man and wife; or perhaps one should rather say than the love of a
woman for her husband. There appear to be some men capable of being so
completely estranged from their wives that there positively does not
remain in them even the faintest recollection of what they have once
felt, nor the possibility of feeling the least pity for what the women
they once loved so well may suffer. There is no woman, I believe, who
having once loved her husband truly, could see him in pain or distress,
or in danger of his life, without earnestly endeavouring to help him. A
woman may cease to love her husband; in some cases she is right in