e prostrated in its pride across the
road, of the fine southern head laid low in the dust, of that youth in
prime flung at once before him pallid, lifeless, helpless--this was the
very combination of circumstances to win for the victim Mr. Yorke's
liveliest interest.

No other hand was there to raise--to aid, no other voice to question
kindly, no other brain to concert measures; he had to do it all himself.
This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he
regarded him) on his benevolence secured that benevolence most
effectually. Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it. He
had now between his hands power over a fellow-creature's life. It suited
him.

No less perfectly did it suit his saturnine better half. The incident
was quite in her way and to her taste. Some women would have been
terror-struck to see a gory man brought in over their threshold, and
laid down in their hall in the "howe of the night." There, you would
suppose, was subject-matter for hysterics. No. Mrs. Yorke went into
hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to her
knitting, or when Martin proposed starting for Australia, with a view to
realize freedom and escape the tyranny of Matthew; but an attempted
murder near her door--a half-murdered man in her best bed--set her
straight, cheered her spirits, gave her cap the dash of a turban.

Mrs. Yorke was just the woman who, while rendering miserable the
drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would nurse like a heroine a
hospital full of plague patients. She almost loved Moore. Her tough
heart almost yearned towards him when she found him committed to her
charge--left in her arms, as dependent on her as her youngest-born in
the cradle. Had she seen a domestic or one of her daughters give him a
draught of water or smooth his pillow, she would have boxed the
intruder's ears. She chased Jessie and Rose from the upper realm of the
house; she forbade the housemaids to set their foot in it.

Now, if the accident had happened at the rectory gates, and old Helstone
had taken in the martyr, neither Yorke nor his wife would have pitied
him. They would have adjudged him right served for his tyranny and
meddling. As it was, he became, for the present, the apple of their eye.

Strange! Louis Moore was permitted to come--to sit down on the edge of
the bed and lean over the pillow; to hold his brother's hand, and press
his pale forehead with his fraternal lips; and M