new will behind my back. The more shame on you, Mr. Anderson,--
you, a minister of the gospel--to act as his accomplice in such a
crime.

ANDERSON (rising). I will take no offence at what you say in the
first bitterness of your grief.

MRS. DUDGEON (contemptuously). Grief!

ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in
your heart to think that the better word.

MRS. DUDGEON. My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you
begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us?

ANDERSON (rather guiltily). I--er--

MRS. DUDGEON (vehemently). Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told
that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and
desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to Timothy, but to
that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his days
with a rope round his neck--aye, to Peter Dudgeon. You know it:
old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you succeeded, though
you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he
gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me and
strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing
man--as he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the
woman I am? And you, you who followed your heart in your
marriage, you talk to me of what I find in my heart. Go home to
your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. (She turns