ceased, he looked up to know how his pupil fared, he found him fast
asleep--sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a tear on his face.
The sight would satisfy him well. Calm upon such a tormented sea
must be the gift of God; and the curate would then sometimes fall
asleep himself--to start awake at the first far-off sound of Helen's
dress as it swept a running fire of fairy fog-signals from the half-
opened buds of the daisies, and the long heads of the rib-grass,
when he would rise and saunter a few paces aside, and she would bend
over her brother, to see if he were warm and comfortable. By this
time all the old tenderness of her ministration had returned, nor
did she seem any longer jealous of Wingfold's.

One day she came behind them as they talked. The grass had been mown
that morning, and also she happened to be dressed in her riding-
habit and had gathered up the skirt over her arm, so that on this
occasion she made no sound of sweet approach. Wingfold had been
uttering one of his rambling monologues--in which was much without
form, but nothing void.

"I don't know quite," he had been saying, "what to think about that
story of the woman they brought to Jesus in the temple--I mean how
it got into that nook of the gospel of St. John, where it has no
right place.--They didn't bring her for healing or for the rebuke of
her demon, but for condemnation, only they came to the wrong man for
that. They dared not carry out the law of stoning, as they would
have liked, I suppose, even if Jesus had condemned her, but perhaps
they hoped rather to entrap him who was the friend of sinners into
saying something against the law.--But what I want is, to know how
it got there,--just there, I mean, betwixt the seventh and eighth
chapters of St. John's Gospel. There is no doubt of its being an