old and forbidding, but Totty had a sense that there
was warmth within, warmth and shelter of a kind that she needed just
now.

She entered, and, at the proper place, dropped to her knees and crossed
herself. Then she stood looking about. Near her, hanging against a
pillar, was a box with the superscription: 'For the Souls in
Purgatory.' She always put a penny into this box, and did so now.

Then she walked softly to an image of the Virgin, at whose feet someone
had laid hothouse flowers. A poor woman was kneeling there, a woman in
rags; her head was bent in prayer, her hands clasped against her
breast. Totty knelt beside her, bent her own head and clasped her hands.

Yes, it was good to be here. All was very still; but few lights were
burning. When Totty needed a mother's counsel, a mother's love, she was
wont to come here and whisper humble thoughts to the image which looked
down so soothingly upon all who made appeal. To Totty her religion was
a purely private interest. It would never, for instance, have occurred
to her to demand that her husband should be a Catholic, not even that
he should view her faith with sympathetic tolerance. No word on this
subject would ever pass her lips. What was it to any one else if she
had in secret a mother to whom she breathed her troubles and her
difficulties? Could any one grudge her that? The consolation was too
sacred to speak of. Her thoughts did not rise to a Deity; she thought
but seldom of the story which told her that Deity had taken man's form.
The Madonna was enough, the mother whose gentle heart was full of
sorrows and who had power to aid the sorrowful.

The poor ragged woman sighed deeply, rose and went forth with humble
step--went forth to who knows what miseries, what cruelties and
despairs. But in her sigh there had been consolation.'

Even so with Totty. When at length she left the church, her way was by
no means clear of all obstacles, but the trouble which had come upon
her with unwonted force was much simplified. It was plain to her that
she _could_ give herself to Ackroyd, and that to give him the two
hundred and fifty pounds would be a very substantial pleasure. Growing
accustomed to the thought of her wealth, she derived from it a quiet
pride, which made her walk homewards more staidly than usual. Luke
could never forget that she had been a great help to him.

She would let him settle everything to-night, then would tell him.

These winter nights were t