minister of Christ, that you can talk of such
a thing as possible? What is all the wealth of the world compared to
the life of one beloved human creature! Reverend sir, I am an old poor
man,--a tramp as you say, consorting with rogues and ruffians--but were
I as rich as the richest millionaire that ever 'sweated' honest labour,
I would rather shoot myself than offer money compensation to a father
for the loss of a child whom my selfish pleasure had slain!"

He trembled from head to foot with the force of his own eloquence, and
Arbroath stared at him dumb-foundered.

"You are a preacher,"--went on Helmsley--"You are a teacher of the
Gospel. Do you find anything in the New Testament that gives men licence
to ride rough-shod over the hearts and emotions of their fellow-men? Do
you find there that selfishness is praised or callousness condoned? In
those sacred pages are we told that a sparrow's life is valueless, or a
child's prayer despised? Sir, if you are a Christian, teach Christianity
as Christ taught it--_honestly_!"

Arbroath turned livid.

"How dare you--!" he began--when Mary quietly rose.

"I would advise you to be going, sir,"--she said, quite
courteously--"The old man is not very strong, and he has a trouble of
the heart. It is little use for persons to argue who feel so
differently. We poor folk do not understand the ways of the gentry."

And she held open the door of her cottage for him to pass out. He
pressed his slouch-hat more heavily over his eyes, and glared at her
from under the shadow of its brim.

"You are harbouring a dangerous customer in your house!" he said--"A
dangerous customer! It will be my duty to warn the parish against him!"

She smiled.

"You are very welcome to do so, sir! Good-morning!"

And as he tramped away through her tiny garden, she quickly shut and
barred the door after him, and hurried to Helmsley in some anxiety, for
he looked very pale, and his breath came and went somewhat rapidly.

"David dear, why did you excite yourself so much over that man!" she
said, kneeling beside him as he sank back exhausted in his chair--"Was
it worth while?"

He patted her head with a tremulous hand.

"Perhaps not!" And he smiled--"Perhaps not, Mary! But the cold-blooded
way in which he said that a money compensation might have been offered
to poor Tom o' the Gleam for his little child's life--my God! As if any
sort of money could compare with love!"

He stroked her hair gently, and