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It was late in the afternoon when he reached his destination. At the parsonage he found no one but the housekeeper,–a well-fed, proud-looking personage. She made various efforts to fathom his purpose, but could obtain no other answer than that he must see the parson himself. At length he came, preceded by his brace of half-shorn Pomeranian poodles, who offered to attack the stranger, but were deterred by a single look. It was not without reason that people said Florian could charm dogs with magic: the most furious suddenly took fright when he eyed them sharply.

When Florian saw the parson, his own eyes fell. He was a powerful, thick-set man, with a white-and-black cravat. Crescence was his image, to the very freckles. The parson saw something suspicious in the shyness of his visitor, and asked him what he wanted.

“I wish to speak a word with you alone,” said Florian.

The parson bade him follow to his study.

Florian delivered the letter, and the parson read it. Florian watched the play of his features narrowly.

“From whom is this letter?” asked the parson. “I don’t know the person.”

“You know the Red Tailor’s wife, surely? Her name is below there, and the letter is from her oldest daughter. The tailor’s wife is at the point of death, and won’t get well again.”

“Sorry to hear it. Give the people my good wishes, and if I can do any thing for them it shall be done.”

“And you won’t do something particular for Crescence now?”

“I don’t see why.”

“But I see it, your reverence. Not a soul shall ever hear of it, I’ll take my oath and sacrament upon it; but help us you must, or I don’t know what’s to become of us both.”

The parson fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and, having found the right one, he twirled it in his fingers, saying, “I always like to assist the poor, but can do very little just now.”

“Then give me your handwriting for the balance.”

At these words the parson looked around him with an air of wrath and terror. He thought he must have betrayed himself in permitting Florian to make such a demand. With forced hardness in his tone, he repeated, “Once for all, I have nothing to do with these people; and here is something toward your expenses.”

Florian flung the money at his feet, crying, “I want to know whether you mean to do your duty by your child or not. She’s as like you as one rain-drop’s like the other. Yes or no? You are the father of my Crescence. I dare not hurt you, and I will not hurt you; but–Lord God!–I don’t know what I am doing!” He seized the handle of the knife in his pocket, snapped the lock of the door with his other hand, and went on:–“I never slaughtered the wrong sort of cattle yet; but—-” He foamed and trembled with fury.

“You villain!” cried the parson, making for the window and opening it.

Suddenly the wall opened, and the housekeeper entered by a masked door, saying, “The councilmen and the squire are over there, your reverence, and want you to come over directly.”

The knife almost fell from Florian’s hand. The parson stood in the open door in safety.

“What is your last word?” demanded Florian, once more.

“Clear out of my house this instant, or I’ll have you arrested.”

Florian departed with faltering steps: the last bough of the tree of his hopes was broken. He wandered home in the darkness, accompanied by dreadful thoughts. Once, looking up to the stars, he broke out into, “Good God in heaven, can it be thy will that there should be men on earth who must deny their children and cast them into misery? But it’s all my own fault. Why didn’t I stick to my principle and have nothing to do with him?”

It was three days before he set foot in the village again. He felt as if a heavy chastisement were awaiting him,–as if he would be made to do penance there; and yet he knew of no crime he had committed.