eby lowered to earth--but so it is. The conscientious man does them;
but a helping hand, a friendly voice, a loving word, is a wonderful aid
towards doing them with a cheerful spirit.

There was silence for a few minutes between Rowland and Freda, and their
quick steps slackened. At last:

'I thank you from my heart, Miss Gwynne,' said Rowland, for all your
kindness to my dear sister. It must cease, alas! but it will never be
forgotten.'

'Poor Netta! my old playfellow! I was only too thankful to be of any
service. I wish we could have saved her.'

'God knows best. Her husband is in Newgate gaol.'

Rowland said this with a great effort; Freda started, and there was
again a brief silence.

'Miss Gwynne, I have long wished to say to you, how much I have felt
your devotion to the schools and poor of our parish. Now that we are
about to lose you, perhaps, I may do so. Glanyravon will gain what our
poor East End loses.'

'Thank you. If I leave London in a better spirit than I entered it, I am
in great measure indebted to you for it.'

'To me!'

'Yes. I do not wish to flatter, or to be religiously sentimental; but
your practical, simple sermons, and your still more practical life have
done me much good. Now we will not compliment one another any more.'

'Oh, Miss Gwynne! you do not know what you do when you say such words
to me.'

'I simply tell the truth.'

'I, too, have another truth to tell, which, if not told now, will never
be told.'

Freda's heart beat quick, and her face flushed. She was thankful that
silence concealed the one, and night the other. But the truth was not
what the heart whispered, and the pulsation slackened.

'Years ago--I know not how many years, the time seems so long, and yet
so short--I insulted you by words that should never have been said. We
were on this very drive, near this very spot--the same moon was looking
down upon us. This very tree was over our heads. Do you remember? You
do--alas! you must. Pride, most improper pride in one who should be a
teacher of humility, has prevented my alluding to the subject ever
since.'

Rowland paused, and he and Freda stood still beneath that old oak, so
well remembered by both. She did not speak; she could not for the
moment; and Rowland continued,--

'Those words, which called forth your severe and deserved reproof,
should never have been said; but your kindness, the hour, the scene, my
own excited feelings, my--in short, they were ca