I.

A summons from Mr. Brandon meant a summons. And I don't think I should

have dared to disobey one any more than I should those other summonses

issued by the law courts. He was my guardian, and he let me know it.

But I was hardly pleased that the mandate should have come for me just

this one particular day. We were at Crabb Cot: Helen, Anna, and William

Whitney had come to it for a week's visit; and I did not care to lose a

day with them. It had to be lost, however. Mr. Brandon had ordered me to

be with him as early as possible in the morning: so that I must be off

betimes to catch the first train.

It was a cold bleak day towards the end of February: sleet falling now

and then, the east wind blowing like mad, and cutting me in two as I

stood at the hall-door. Nobody else was down yet, and I had swallowed my

breakfast standing.

Shutting the door after me, and making a rush down the walk between the

evergreens for the gate, I ran against Lee, the Timberdale postman, who

was coming in, with the letters, on his shaky legs. His face, shaded by

its grey locks, straggling and scanty, had a queer kind of fear upon it.

"Mr. Johnny, I'm thankful to meet you; I was thinking what luck it would

be if I could," said he, trembling. "Perhaps you will stand my friend,

sir. Look here."

Of the two letters he handed to me, one was addressed to Mrs. Todhetley;

the other to Helen Whitney. And this last had its envelope pretty nearly

burnt off. The letter inside could be opened by anybody, and some of the

scorched writing lay exposed.

"If the young lady would only forgive me--and hush it up, Mr. Johnny!"

he pleaded, his poor worn face taking a piteous hue. "The Miss Whitneys

are both very nice and kind young ladies; and perhaps she will."

"How was it done, Lee?"

"Well, sir, I was lighting my pipe. It is a smart journey here, all the

way from Timberdale--and I had to take the long round to-day instead of

the Ravine, because there was a newspaper for the Stone House. The east

wind was blowing right through me, Mr. Johnny; and I thought if I had

a bit of a smoke I might get along better. A spark must have fallen on

the letter while I was lighting my pipe, and I did not see it till the

letter was aflame in my hand. If--if you could but stand my friend, sir,

and--and perhaps give the letter to the young lady yourself, so that the

Squire does not see it--and ask her to forgive me."

One could only pity him, poor worn man. Lee had had pecks of trouble,

and it had told upon him, making him old before his time. Now and then,

when it was a bad winter's morning, and the Squire caught sight of him,

he would tell him to go into the kitchen and get a cup of hot coffee.

Taking the two letters from him to do what I could, I carried them

indoors.

Putting Helen's with its tindered cover into an envelope, I wrote a line

in pencil, and slipped it in also.

"DEAR HELEN,

"Poor old Lee has had a mishap and burnt your letter in lighting his

pipe. He wants you to forgive it and not to tell the Squire. No real

damage is done, so please be kind.

"J. L."

Directing this to her, I sent it to her room by Hannah, and made a final

start for the train.

And this was what happened afterwards.

Hannah took the letter to Helen, who was in the last stage of dressing,

just putting the finishing touches to her hair. Staring at the state her

letter was in, she read the few words I had written, and then went into

a passion at what Lee had done. Helen Whitney was as good-hearted a girl

as ever lived, but hot and hasty in temper, saying anything that came

uppermost when put out. She, by the help of time, had got over the

smart left by the summary collapse of her marriage, and had ceased to

abuse Mr. Richard Foliott. All that was now a thing of the past. And,

not having had a spark of love for him, he was the more easily

forgotten.

"The wicked old sinner!" she burst out: and with emphasis so startling,

that Anna, reading by the window, dropped her Prayer-book.

"Helen! What is the matter?"

"_That's_ the matter," flashed Helen, showing the half-burnt envelope

and scorched letter, and flinging on the table the piece of paper I had

slipped inside. Anna took the letter up and read it.

"Poor old man! It was only an accident, Helen; and, I suppose, as Johnny

says, no real damage is done. You must not say anything about it."

"Must I not!" was Helen's tart retort.

"Who is the letter from?"

"Never you mind."

"But is it from home?"

"It is from Mr. Leafchild, if you must know."

"Oh," said Anna shortly. For that a flirtation, or something of the

kind, had been going on between Helen and the curate, Leafchild, and

that it would not be likely to find favour at Whitney Hall, she was

quite aware of.

"Mr. Leafchild writes about the school," added Helen, after reading the

letter; perhaps tendering the information as an apology for its having

come at all. "Those two impudent girls, Kate and Judith Dill, have been

setting Miss Barn at defiance, and creating no end of insubordination."

With the last word, she was leaving the room; the letter in her pocket,

the burnt envelope in her hand. Anna stopped her.

"You are not going to show that, are you, Helen? Please don't."

"Mr. Todhetley ought to see it--and call Lee to account for his

carelessness. Why, he might have altogether burnt the letter!"

"Yes; of course it was careless. But I dare say it will be a lesson to

him. He is very poor and old, Helen. Pray don't tell the Squire; he

might make so much commotion over it, and then you would be sorry.

Johnny asks you not."

Helen knitted her brow, but put the envelope into her pocket with the

letter: not conceding with at all a good grace, and went down nodding

her head in semi-defiance. The cream of the sting lay no doubt in the

fact that the letter was Mr. Leafchild's, and that other eyes than her

own might have seen it.

She did not say anything at the breakfast-table, though Anna sat upon

thorns lest she should: Helen was so apt to speak upon impulse. The

Squire talked of riding out; Whitney said he would go with him: Tod

seemed undecided what he should do. Mrs. Todhetley read to them the

contents of her letter--which was from Mary Blair.

"I shall go for a walk," announced Helen, when the rest had dispersed.

"Come and get your things on, Anna."

"But I don't care to go out," said Anna. "It is a very disagreeable day.

And I meant to help Mrs. Todhetley with the frock she is making for

Lena."

"You can help her when you come back. I am not going through that Crabb

Ravine by myself."

"Through Crabb Ravine!"

"Yes. I want to go to Timberdale."

It never occurred to Anna that the errand to Timberdale could have any

connection with the morning's mishap. She put her things on without more

ado--Helen always domineered over her, just as Tod did over me--and the

two girls went out together.

"Halloa!" cried Tod, who was standing by the pigeon-house. "Where are

you off to?"

"Timberdale," replied Helen. And Tod turned and walked with them.

They were well through the Ravine, and close on to the entrance of

Timberdale, before Helen said a word of what she had in her mind.

Pulling the burnt envelope and the letter out then, she showed them to

Tod.

"What do you think of that for a piece of carelessness!" she asked: and

forthwith told him the whole story. Tod, hasty and impulsive, took the

matter up as warmly as she had done.

"Lee ought to be reported for this--and punished. There might have been

a bank-note in the letter."

"Of course there might," assented Helen. "And for Johnny Ludlow to want

to excuse him, and ask me to hush it up!"

"Just like Johnny! In such things he is an out-and-out muff. How would

the world go on, I wonder, if Johnny ruled it? You ought to have shown

it to the Squire at once, Helen."

"So I should but for Johnny and Anna. As they had asked me not to, I did

not quite like to fly in their faces. But I am going to show it to your

postmaster at Timberdale."

"Oh, Helen!" involuntarily breathed Anna. And Tod looked up.

"Don't mind her," said Helen. "She and Johnny are just alike--making

excuses for every one. Rymer the chemist is postmaster, is he not?"

"Rymer's dead--don't you remember that, Helen? Before he died, he gave

up the post-office business. Salmon, the grocer opposite, took to it."

This Salmon was brother to the Salmon (grocer and draper) at South

Crabb. Both were long-headed men, and flourishing tradesmen in their

small way.

"Poor old Lee!" cried Tod, with a shade of pity. "He is too ailing and

feeble; we have often said it. But of course he must be taught not to

set fire to the letters."

Anna's eyelashes were wet. "Suppose, by your complaining, you should get

him turned out of his post?" she suggested, with the timid deference she

might have observed to a royal duke--but in the presence of those two

she always lost her courage. Tod answered her gently. When he was gentle

to any one, it was to her.

"No fear of that, Anna. Salmon will blow old Lee up, and there'll be an

end of it. Whose letter was it, Helen?"

"It was from Mr. Leafchild--about our schools," answered Helen, turning

her face away that he might not see its sudden rush of colour.

Well, they made their complaint to Salmon; who was properly indignant

and said he would look into it, Tod putting in a word for the offender,

Lee. "We don't want him reported to headquarters, or anything of that

kind, you know, Salmon. Just give him a reprimand, and warn him to be

cautious in future."

"I'll see to him, sir," nodded Salmon.

(The final result of the burning of this letter of Helen Whitney's, and

of another person's letter that got burnt later, was recorded in the

last Series, in a paper called "Lee the Letter-Man."

It may be as well to remind the reader that these stories told by

"Johnny Ludlow" are not always placed consecutively as regards the time

of their occurrence, but go backwards or forwards indiscriminately.)

Being so near, Helen and Anna thought they would call on Herbert

Tanerton and Grace at the Rectory; next, they just looked in at

Timberdale Court--Robert Ashton's. Altogether, what with one delay and

another, they arrived at home when lunch was nearly over. And who should

be sitting there, but Sir John Whitney! He had come over unexpectedly to

pass an hour or two.

Helen Whitney was very clever in her way: but she was apt to be

forgetful at times, as all the rest of us are. One thing she had totally

and entirely forgotten to-day--and that was to ask Tod not to speak of

the letter. So that when the Squire assailed them with reproaches for

being late, Tod, unconscious that he was doing wrong, blurted out the

truth. A letter from Mr. Leafchild to Helen had been partly burnt by old

Lee, and they had been to Timberdale to complain to Salmon.

"A letter from Leafchild to Helen!" cried Sir John. "That must be a

mistake. Leafchild would not presume to write to Helen."

She grew white as snow. Sir John had turned from the table to face her,

and she dared not run away. The Squire was staring and frowning at the

news of old Lee's sin, denouncing him hotly, and demanding to see the

letter.

"Yes, where is this letter?" asked Sir John. "Let me see it, Helen."

"It--it was about the schools, papa."

"About the schools! Like his impudence! What have you to do with the

schools? Give me the letter."

"My gracious me, burn a letter!" cried the Squire. "Lee must be in his

dotage. The letter, my dear, the letter; we must see it."

Between them both, Helen was in a corner. She might have been capable of

telling a white fib and saying she had not the letter, rather than let

her father see it. Anna, who knew she had it in her pocket, went for

nobody; but Tod knew it also. Tod suspecting no complications, was

holding out his hand for her to produce it. With trembling lips, and

fingers that shook in terror, she slowly drew it forth. Sir John took

the letter from her, the Squire caught hold of the burnt envelope.

There was not a friendly hole in the floor for Helen to drop through.

She escaped by the door to hide herself and her hot cheeks. For this was

neither more nor less than a love-letter from the curate, and Sir John

had taken it to the window to read it in the stronger light.

"Bless my heart and mind!" cried he when he had mastered its contents,

just such an exclamation as the Squire would have made. "He--he--I

believe the fellow means to make love to her! What a false-hearted

parson he must be! Come here, Todhetley."

To see the two old heads poring over the letter together through their

spectacles was something good, Tod said, when he told me all this later.

It was just a love-letter and nothing less, but without a word of love

in it. But not a bad love-letter of its kind; rather a sensible one.

After telling Helen about the tracasserie in the parish school (which

must have afforded him just the excuse for writing that he may have

wanted), the curate went on to say a little bit about their mutual

"friendship," and finished up by begging Helen to allow him to speak

to Sir John and Lady Whitney, for he could not bear to think that by

keeping silent they were deceiving them. "As honourable a letter in

its way as you could wish to hear read," observed Tod; for Sir John

and the Squire had read it aloud between them for the benefit of the

dining-room.

"This comes of having grown-up daughters," bewailed poor Sir John.

"Leafchild ought to be put in the pillory. And where's Helen got to?

Where is that audacious girl?"

Poor Helen caught it hot and strong--Sir John demanding of her, for one

thing, whether she had not had enough of encouraging disreputable young

sparks with that Richard Foliott. Poor Helen sobbed and hid her head,

and finally took courage to say that Mr. Leafchild was a saint on

earth--not to be as much as named in the same sentence with Richard

Foliott. And when I got home at night, everybody, from Helen downwards,

was in the dumps, and Sir John had gone home to make mincemeat of the

curate.

Buttermead was one of those straggling parishes that are often found in

rural districts. Whitney Hall was situated in it, also the small village

of Whitney, also that famous school of ours, Dr. Frost's, and there was

a sprinkling of other good houses. Some farm homesteads lay scattered

about; and the village boasted of a street and a half.

The incumbent of Buttermead, or Whitney, was the Reverend Matthew

Singleton: his present curate was Charles Leafchild. Mr. Leafchild,

though eight-and-twenty years of age, was only now ordained deacon, and

this year was his first in the ministry. At eighteen he had gone out to

the West Indies, a post having been found for him there. He did not go

by choice. Being a steady-minded young fellow, religiously inclined, he

had always wished to be a parson; but his father, Dr. Leafchild, a great

light among Church dignitaries, and canon residentiary of a cathedral in

the North, had set his face against the wish. The eldest son was a

clergyman, and of his preferment Dr. Leafchild could take tolerable

care, but he did not know that he could do much in that way for his

younger sons, and so Charles's hopes had to go to the wall. Spiritual

earnestness, however, at length made itself heard within him to

some purpose; and he resolved, come what might, that he would quit

money-making for piety. The West Indian climate did not agree with

him; he had to leave it for home, and then it was that he made the

change. "You would have been rich in time had you stuck to your post,"

remonstrated the Reverend Doctor to him: "now you may be nothing but a

curate all your life." "True, father," was the answer, "but I shall hope

to do my duty as one." So Charles Leafchild made himself into a parson,

and here he was at Buttermead, reading through his first year, partially

tabooed by his family, and especially by that flourishing divine, the

head of it.

He was a good-looking young man, as men go. Rather tall than not, with

a pale, calm face, brown hair that he wore long, and mild brown eyes

that had no end of earnestness in their depths. A more self-denying man

could not be found; though as a rule young men are not famous for great

self-denial. The small stipend given by Mr. Singleton had to suffice for

all his wants. Leafchild had never said what this stipend was; except

that he admitted one day it was not _more_ than seventy pounds: how much

less than that, he did not state.

Just a few roods out of the village stood a small dwelling called

Marigold Cottage. A tidy woman named Bean lived in it with her

two daughters, one of whom was the paid mistress of the national

girls'-school. Mr. Leafchild lodged here, as the late curate had before

him, occupying the spare sitting-room and bedroom. And if Mrs. Bean was

to be believed--and she had been a veracious woman all her life--three

days out of the seven, at least, Mr. Leafchild went without meat at

his dinner, having given it away to some sick or poor creature, who

wanted it, he considered, more than he did. A self-denying, earnest,

gentle-minded man; that's what he was: and perhaps it may be forgiven

to Helen Whitney that she fell in love with him.

When Helen went home from London, carrying with her the mortification

that came of her interrupted marriage and Captain Foliott's delinquency,

she began to do what she had never done in her life before, busy herself

a little in the parish: perhaps as a safety-valve to carry off her

superfluous anger. The curate was a middle-aged man with a middle-aged

wife and two babies, and Helen had no scruple in going about with him,

here, there, and everywhere. To the schools, to the church, to practise

the boys, to visit the poor, went she. But when in a few months that

curate's heart was made glad by a living--two hundred a-year and a

five-roomed Vicarage--and Mr. Leafchild came in his place, it was a

little different. She did not run about with the new curate as she had

with the old, but she did see a good deal of him, and he of her. The

result was they fell in love with one another. For the first time in her

life the uncertain god, Cupid, had pierced the somewhat invulnerable

heart of Helen Whitney.

But now, could anything be so inappropriate, or look more hopeless?

Charles Leafchild, B.A., curate of Buttermead, positively only yet

reading for his full title, scantily paid, no prospect of anything

better, lacking patronage; and Miss Helen Whitney, daughter of Sir John

Whitney, baronet! Looking at it from a practical point of view, it

seemed that he might just as well have expected to woo and wed one of

the stars in the sky.

On the bleak February morning that followed Helen's expedition to

Timberdale, Mr. Leafchild came down from his chamber and entered his

sitting-room. The fire, a small one, for Mrs. Bean had received a

general caution to be sparing of his coal, burnt brightly in the grate.

He stood over it for a minute or two, rubbing his slender hands at the

blaze: since he left the West Indies he had felt the cold more keenly

than formerly. Then he turned to the breakfast-table, and saw upon it,

a small portion of cold neck of mutton, an uncut loaf, and a pat of

butter. His tea stood there, already made.

"If I leave the meat, it will do for dinner," he thought: and proceeded

to make his meal of bread-and-butter. Letty Bean, who chiefly waited on

him, came in.

"A letter for you, sir," she said, handing him a note.

He took it, looked at the handwriting, which was thick and sprawly and

not familiar to him, and laid it beside his plate.

"Sir John Whitney's footman brought it, sir," continued Letty,

volunteering the information: and a hot colour flushed the curate's face

as he heard it. He opened it then. Short and peremptory, it merely

requested the Reverend Charles Leafchild to call upon Sir John Whitney

that morning at Whitney Hall.

"Is the man waiting for an answer, Letty?"

"No, sir. He went away as soon as he gave it me."

Mr. Leafchild half suspected what had occurred--that Sir John must, in

some way, have become acquainted with the state of affairs. He judged

so by the cold, haughty tone of the note: hitherto Sir John had always

shown himself friendly. Far from being put out, Mr. Leafchild hoped it

was so, and went on with his breakfast.

Another interruption. Mrs. Bean this time. She wore a mob cap and had

lost her teeth.

"Here's that tipsy Jones come to the door, sir. He says you told him to

come."

"Ah yes, I did; let him come in," said the curate. "Is he tipsy this

morning?"

"No, sir, only shaky. And what shall I order you for dinner, sir,

to-day? I may as well ask, as I am here."

"That will do," he answered, pointing to the cold meat. "And please mash

the potatoes."

Jones came in. The man was not an incorrigibly bad doer, but weak and

irresolute. If he worked two days, he idled and drank three, and his

wife and children suffered. Mr. Leafchild, who felt more sorrow for him

than anger, invited him to a seat by the fire, and talked to him long

and persuasively, almost as one brother might talk to another, and gave

him a hot cup of tea. Jones went away great in promises and penitence:

and about eleven o'clock the curate betook himself to the Hall.

Of all men living, the Squire perhaps excepted, Sir John was about the

worst to carry out any troublesome negotiation. He was good-hearted,

irresolute, and quick-tempered.

When Mr. Leafchild was shown in, Sir John utterly forgot certain

speeches he had conned over in his mind, broke down, went into a

passion, and told the curate he was a designing, impudent villain.

Though his love for Helen, and that was intense, caused him to feel

somewhat agitated in the presence of Helen's father, Mr. Leafchild's

manner was quiet and calm, a very contrast to that of Sir John. After a

little while, when the baronet had talked himself cool, Mr. Leafchild

entered into a history of the affair: telling how he and Miss Whitney

had met without any intention of any kind, except of that which might be

connected with the parish interests, and how with as little intention,

a mutual liking--nay, a _love_--had sprung up.

"Yes, that's all very fine," said Sir John, shuffling about his steel

spectacles that were perched on his old red nose. "You knew she was my

daughter; you knew well what you were about."

The young man reddened at the reproach.

"Sir, indeed you misjudge me. I never thought of such a thing as falling

in love with Miss Whitney until the love had come. Had she been the most

obscure of young women, it would have been all the same."

"Then you are an idiot for your pains," retorted Sir John. "Why,

goodness gracious me! have you not _one_ single atom of common sense?

Can't you see how unfitting it is?"

"My family is a very good one; in point of fact, as good as yours, Sir

John--if you will pardon me for saying so thus pointedly," urged the

curate in his gentle voice. "And though----"

"Oh, bother!" interrupted Sir John, having no counter argument

particularly at hand. "That goes for nothing. What are your prospects?"

"They are not great. Perhaps I ought to say that I have no prospects as

yet. But, sir----"

"Now come! that's honest. No prospects! And yet you must go making love

to my daughter."

"I have not done that, sir, in one sense--'made love.' Hardly a word,

I think, has passed between myself and Miss Whitney that you might not

have heard. But we have, notwithstanding, been fully aware of the state

of each other's heart----"

"The state of each other's fiddlestick," spluttered Sir John. "A nice

pair of you, I must say! And pray, what did you think it would come to?"

"What Miss Whitney may have thought I have not presumed to ask. For

myself, I confess I am cherishing hopes for the future. It is some

little time now since I have been wishing to speak to you, Sir John: and

I intended, if you were so kind as not to entirely reject me, to write

to my father, Dr. Leafchild, and lay the whole case before him. I think

he can help me later if he will; and I certainly believe he will be only

too glad to do it."

"Help you to what?"

"To a living."

"And, bless my heart and mind, how long do you suppose you might have to

wait? A dozen years. Twenty years, for all you know. The curate who was

here before you, poor Bell, had been waiting more than twenty years for

one. It came to him last year, and he was forty-seven years old."

Mr. Leafchild could say nothing to this.

"And a fine living it is, now he has it!" went on Sir John. "No, no,

sir: Helen Whitney cannot be dragged into that kind of fate."

"I should be the last to drag her, or wish to drag her into it. Believe

that, Sir John. But, if I had a good living given to me, then I should

like her to share it. And I think that my father would perhaps allow me

some private means also, for Helen's sake. He has money, and could do

it."

"But all those fancies and notions are just so many vapours, clouds up

in the sky, and no better, don't you see! You young men are sanguine and

foolish; you lose sight of facts in fallacies. We must look at what is,

not at what might be. Why, you are not yet even a priest!"

"No. I shall be ordained to that in a few months' time."

"And then, I suppose, you will either remain here, or get a curacy

elsewhere. And your income will be that of a curate--a hundred pounds

a-year, all told. Some curates get but fifty."

"True. We are poorly paid."

"And that may go on till you are forty or fifty years of age! And yet,

in the face of it, you ask me to let you have my daughter. Now, Mr.

Leafchild, you are either a simpleton yourself, or you must think I am

one," added Sir John, rising to end the interview, which had been to him

one of thorough discomfort. "And I'm sure I hope you'll pick up a little

common sense, young man, and I shall order Miss Helen to pick some up

too. There, that's all."

"I trust you are not angry with me, sir," said the curate mildly, for

Sir John was holding out his hand to be shaken.

"Well, yes, I am. Anything like this causes one such worry, you know.

I'm sure I and my wife have had no sleep all night. You must not think

any more of Helen. And now good-morning."

As Mr. Leafchild walked back to his lodgings at Dame Bean's, his hopes

seemed to be about as dull as the wintry sky on which his nice brown

eyes were fixed. His whole happiness, socially speaking, lay in Helen;

hers lay with him; but only separation seemed to be looming in the air.

Suddenly, when he was close to Marigold Cottage, a little rift broke in

the leaden clouds, and a bit of pale blue sky shone forth.

"I will take that as an omen for good; pray God it may be so!" spoke the

curate gladly and reverently, as he lifted his hat. "And--come what may,

in storm and in tempest, God is over all."

Helen went home in the dumps and to sundry edifying lectures. An embargo

was laid on her parish work, and she only saw the curate at church. One

month, two months passed over thus, and she grew pale and thin. Sir John

was cross, Lady Whitney uncomfortable; they were both simple-minded

people, caring more for their children's happiness than for their

grandeur. The former told the Squire in confidence that if the young

fellow could get a decent living, he was not sure but he'd give in, and

that he liked him ten thousand times better than he had ever liked that

Foliott.

They met one day by accident. Helen was out moping in the long broad

walk: which was beginning to be shady now, for May was all but in, and

the trees were putting on their foliage. At the end of it she came to

a standstill, leaning on the gate. The waters of the lake, out yonder,

were blue as the unruffled sky. With a faint cry, she started aside, for

Charles Leafchild stood before her.

Being a parson, and tacitly on honour to Sir John, he might have been

expected to pass on his way without stopping; but Helen's hand was

already stretched out over the gate. He could but shake it.

"You are not looking well," he said after a moment's silence. "I am

sorry to see it."

What with his unexpected presence, and what with her mind's general

discomfort, Helen burst into tears. Mr. Leafchild kept her hand in his.

"I have a bad headache to-day," said Helen, by way of excuse for her

tears. "It has been gloomy weather lately."

"Gloomy within and without," he assented, giving a meaning to her words

that she had not meant to imply. "But in every cloud, you know, however

dark it may be, there is always a silver lining."

"We can't always see it," returned Helen, drying her tears.

"No; we very often cannot. But we may trust that it is there--and be

patient."

"I think it sometimes happens that we never see it--that all is gloomy

to the end, the end of life. What then?"

"Then we may be sure that it is best for us it should be so. God directs

all things."

Helen sighed: she had not learnt the love and faith and submission that

made up the sum of Mr. Leafchild's life, bringing into it so strange a

peace.

"Is it true that you are going to leave?" she asked. "We heard it

mentioned."

"Yes: when I shall be fully ordained. Mr. Singleton has to take his

nephew. It was an old promise--that he should come to him for his first

year, just as I have. I think I shall go to Worcester."

"To Worcester?"

"I have been offered a curacy there by one of the minor canons whose

living is in the town, and I feel inclined to take it. The parish is

large and has a good many of the very poor in it."

Helen made a face. "But would you like that? You might be frightfully

overworked."

"It is what I should like. As to the work--it is done for our Master."

He shook hands with her again, and left, the cheery smile still on his

face, the thoughtful light in his steadfast eyes. And never a word of

love, you see, had passed.

It was, I take it, about a fortnight after this, that there went walking

one afternoon to Whitney Hall, a tall, portly, defiant-looking gentleman

in gold-rimmed spectacles and a laced-up clerical hat. By the way he

turned his head here and there, and threw his shoulders about as he

strode along, you might have taken him for a bishop at least, instead of

a canon--but canons in those days were a great deal more self-important

than bishops are in these. It was the Reverend Dr. Leafchild. A real

canon was he, a great man in his own cathedral, and growing rich on his

share of its substantial revenues: your honorary canons with their empty

title and non-stipends had not sprung into fashion then. In his pompous

manner, and he had been born pompous, Dr. Leafchild asked to see Sir

John Whitney.

After Mr. Leafchild's interview with Sir John in February, he had

written to his father and told him all about it, asking him whether he

thought he could not help him later to a living, so that he might have a

chance of winning Helen. But for Helen's being a baronet's daughter and

the connection one that even the canon might be proud of, he would have

turned a deaf ear: as it was, he listened. But Dr. Leafchild never did

things in a hurry; and after some correspondence with his son (and a

great deal of grumbling, meant for his good), he had now come into

Worcestershire for the purpose of talking over the affair with Sir John.

The upshot was, that Sir John gave in, and sanctioned the engagement.

There was an excellent living somewhere down in the North--eight hundred

pounds a-year, a handsome house, and some land--the next presentation to

which the canon could command. He had intended it for his eldest son;

but he, by some lucky chance, had just obtained a better preferment, and

the doctor could promise it to Charles. The present incumbent was old

and ailing; therefore, in all probability, it would very speedily fall

in. The canon added that he might settle on the young people a small sum

at their marriage, say a hundred a-year, or so; and he also hinted that

Charles might stand a chance of better preferment later--say a snug

canonry. So Sir John shook hands heartily upon the bargain, invited the

canon to stay dinner, and sent for Charles.

For the next six weeks who so happy as the curate and Helen? They came

over to us at Dyke Manor (for we had gone back there) for a day or two,

and we learnt to like him with our whole hearts. What a good, earnest,

warm-natured man he was; and oh, how unselfish!

I remember one evening in particular when they were out together, pacing

the field-path. Helen had his arm, and he was talking to her in what

seemed an uncommonly solemn manner: for his hand was lifted now and then

in earnestness, and both were gazing upwards. It was a beautiful sky:

the sun had set in splendour, leaving crimson and gold clouds behind it,

the evening star twinkled in the deepening canopy. Mrs. Todhetley sent

me to them. A poor woman had come up for broth for her sick son, one of

our labourers. She was in great distress: a change had taken place in

him for the worse, he was calling for the clergyman to come to him

before he died: but Mr. Holland was out that evening--gone to Evesham.

"Johnny, I--I think Mr. Leafchild would go," said the mater. "Do you

mind asking him?"

Hardly any need to ask. At the first word he was hastening to the woman

and walking away with her. Helen's eyes, gazing at the sky still, were

wet with tears.

"Is it not beautiful, Johnny?"

"Very." It was a glorious sunset.

"But I never saw it as I see it now. He is teaching me many things. I

cannot hope to be ever as he is, Johnny, not half as good; but I think

in time he will make me a little like him."

"You have a happy life before you."

"Yes--I hope so," she said hesitatingly. "But sometimes a feeling makes

itself heard within me--that one who is so entirely fitted for the next

world may not long be left in this."