He has passed through death--through cruel death; and where He has gone, we poor, weak, stained sinners can follow,--holding to Him.

No sin, however black, can divide us from Him, can tear us from His hand in the dark waters, if it be only repented,--thrown upon His Cross.

Let us pray for your husband, let us implore the Lord's mercy this night--this hour!--upon his soul." A shudder of remembrance passed through Marcella.

The rector knelt; Mrs.
Hurd lay motionless, save for deep gasps of struggling breath at intervals; Ann Mullins sobbed loudly; and Mary Harden wept as she prayed, lost in a mystical vision of the Lord Himself among them--there on the cottage floor--stretching hands of pity over the woman beside her, showing His marred side and brow.
Marcella alone sat erect, her whole being one passionate protest against a faith which could thus heap all the crimes and responsibilities of this too real earth on the shadowy head of one far-off Redeemer.

"This very man who prays," she thought, "is in some sort an accomplice of those who, after tempting, are now destroying, and killing, because they know of nothing better to do with the life they themselves have made outcast." And she hardened her heart.
When the spoken prayer was over, Mr.Harden still knelt on silently for some minutes.