on the verge of some new horror. He began
again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over
a set task.

"You could not understand it all, if I told
you—my anxiety, for years past, to know
whether I had any right to hold my living—
my efforts to quench my smouldering doubts
by the authority of the Church. Oh!
Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which
I am to be shut out!" He could not go on
for a moment or two. Margaret could not
tell what to say; it seemed to her as terribly
mysterious as if her father were about to
turn Mahometan.

"I have been reading to-day of the two
thousand who were ejected from their
churches,"—continued Mr. Hale, smiling
faintly,—"trying to steal some of their
bravery; but it is of no use—no use—I cannot
help feeling it acutely."

"But, papa, have you well considered?
Oh! it seems so terrible, so shocking," said
Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The
one staid foundation of her home, of her idea
of her beloved father, seemed reeling and
rocking. What could she say? What was
to be done? The sight of her distress made
Mr. Hale nerve himself, in order to try and
comfort her. He swallowed down the dry
choking sobs which had been heaving up
from his heart hitherto, and going to his
bookcase he took down a volume, which he
had often been reading lately, and from which
he thought he had derived strength to enter
upon the course in which he was now
embarked.

"Listen, dear Margaret," said he, putting
one arm round her waist. She took his hand
in hers and grasped it tight, but she could
not lift up her head; nor indeed could she
attend to what he read, so great was her
internal agitation.

"This is the soliloquy of one who was once
a clergyman in a country parish, like me; it
was written by a Mr. Oldfield, minister of
Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and
sixty years ago, or more. His trials are
over. He fought the good fight." These
last two sentences he spoke low, as if to
himself. Then he read aloud,—

"When thou canst no longer continue in
thy work without dishonour to God, discredit
to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding
conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding
the loss of thy salvation; in a word, when
the conditions upon which thou must
continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employments
are sinful, and unwarranted by the
word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must
believe that God will turn thy very silence,
suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to
His glory, and the advancement of the Gospel's
interest. When God will not use thee in one
kind, yet He will in another. A soul that
desires to serve and honour Him shall never
want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so
limit the Holy One of Israel, as to think He
hath but one way in which He can glorify
Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence
as well as by thy preaching; thy laying aside
as well as thy continuance in thy work.
It is not pretence of doing God the greatest
service, or performing the weightiest duty,
that will excuse the least sin, though that
sin capacitated or gave us the opportunity for
doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks,
O my soul! if, when thou art charged with
corrupting God's worship, falsifying thy vows,
thou pretendest a necessity for it in order to
a continuance in the ministry."

As he read this, and glanced at much more
which he did not read, he gained resolution
for himself, and felt as if he too could be
brave and firm in doing what he believed to
be right; but as he ceased he heard
Margaret's low convulsive sob; and his courage
sank down under the keen sense of suffering.

"Margaret, dear!" said he, drawing her
closer, "think of the early martyrs; think of
the thousands who have suffered."

"But, father," said she, suddenly lifting up
her flushed, tear-wet face, "the early martyrs
suffered for the truth, while you—oh! dear,
dear papa!"

"I suffer for conscience' sake, my child,"
said he, with a dignity that was only
tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his
character; "I must do what my conscience bids.
I have borne long with self-reproach that
would have roused any mind less torpid and
cowardly than mine." He shook his head as
he went on. "Your poor mother's fond wish,
gratified at last in the mocking way in which
over-fond wishes are too often fulfilled—
Sodom apples as they are—has brought on this
crisis, for which I ought to be, and I hope I
am thankful. It is not a month since the
bishop offered me another living; if I had
accepted it, I should have had to make a
fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy
at my institution. Margaret, I tried to do it;
I tried to content myself with simply refusing
the additional preferment, and stopping
quietly here,—strangling my conscience now,
as I had strained it before. God forgive
me."

He rose and walked up and down the
room, speaking low words of self-reproach
and humiliation, of which Margaret was
thankful to hear but few. At last he said,

"Margaret, I return to the old sad burden:
we must leave Helstone."

"Yes! I see. But when?"

"I have written to the bishop—I dare say
I have told you so, but I forget things just
now," said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his
depressed manner as soon as he came to talk of
hard matter-of-fact details, "informing him
of my intention to resign this vicarage. He
has been most kind; he has used arguments
and expostulations, all in vain—in vain.
They are but what I have tried upon myself,
without avail. I shall have to take my deed
of resignation, and wait upon the bishop