Between mother and child sat Ann Mullins, rocking herself to and fro over the fire, and groaning from time to time--a shapeless sullen creature, brutalised by many children and much poverty--of whom Marcella was often impatient.
"_And he said, Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy Kingdom.

And He said unto him, Verily, I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise."_ The rector's voice, in its awed monotony, dwelt insistently on each word, then paused.

"_To-day_," whispered Mary, caressing Minta's hand, while the tears streamed down her cheeks; "he repented, Minta, and the Lord took him to Himself--at once--forgiving all his sins." Mrs.Hurd gave no sign, but the dark figure on the other side of the cottage made an involuntary movement, which threw down a fire-iron, and sent a start through Willie's wasted body.

The reader resumed; but perfect spontaneity was somehow lost both for him and for Mary.
Marcella's stormy presence worked in them both, like a troubling leaven.
Nevertheless, the priest went steadily through his duty, dwelling on every pang of the Passion, putting together every sacred and sublime word.

For centuries on centuries his brethren and forerunners had held up the Man of Sorrows before the anguished and the dying; his turn had come, his moment and place in the marvellous never-ending task; he accepted it with the meek ardour of an undoubting faith.
"_And all the multitudes that came together to this sight, when they beheld the things that were done, returned, smiting their breasts_." He closed the book, and bent forward, so as to bring his voice close to the wife's ear.
"So He died--the Sinless and the Just--for you, for your husband.