us, to
marry a beggar. She might embrace a holy poverty for the sake of
her own soul; but for the gratification of an earthly passion,
never! Base and carnal delights would never tempt her so far.'

Alas, poor pedant! Among all that thy books taught thee, they did
not open to thee much of the depths of that human heart which thy
dogmas taught thee to despise as diabolic.

Again the little fiend whispered,--

'Unless he comes up to-night, he is a ruined man.'

'And what if he is?' thought the vicar. 'Riches are a curse; and
poverty a blessing. Is it not his wealth which is ruining his soul?
Idleness and fulness of bread have made him what he is--a luxurious
and self-willed dreamer, battening on his own fancies. Were it not
rather a boon to him to take from him the root of all evil?'

Most true, vicar. And yet the devil was at that moment transforming
himself into an angel of light for thee.

But the vicar was yet honest. If he had thought that by cutting off
his right hand he could have saved Lancelot's soul (by canonical
methods, of course; for who would wish to save souls in any other?),
he would have done it without hesitation.

Again the little fiend whispered,--

'Unless he comes up to-night he is a ruined man.'

A terrible sensation seized him.--Why should he give the letter to-
night?

'You promised,' whispered the inner voice.

'No, I did not promise exactly, in so many words; that is, I only
said I would be at home to-night, if God pleased. And what if God
should not please?--I promised for his good. What if, on second
thoughts, it should be better for him not to keep my promise?' A
moment afterwards, he tossed the temptation from him indignantly:
but back it came. At every gaudy shop, at every smoke-grimed
manufactory, at the face of every anxious victim of Mammon, of every
sturdy, cheerful artisan, the fiend winked and pointed, crying, 'And
what if he be ruined? Look at the thousands who have, and are
miserable--at the millions who have not, and are no sadder than
their own tyrants.'

Again and again he thrust the thought from him, but more and more
weakly. His whole frame shook; the perspiration stood on his
forehead. As he took his railway ticket, his look was so haggard
and painful that the clerk asked him whether he were ill. The train
was just starting; he threw himself into a carriage--he would have
locked himself in if he could; and felt an i