o notice of that sad encounter
which had changed his views so entirely. The Rector found, on inquiry,
that the woman was dead, but not until Mr Wentworth had administered to
her fully the consolations of the church. Lucy did not look superior, or
say anything in admiration of Mr Wentworth, but the Rector's conscience
supplied all that was wanting. If good Miss Wodehouse had been there
with her charitable looks, and her disefficiency so like his own, it
would have been a consolation to the good man. He would have turned
joyfully from Lucy and her blue ribbons to that distressed dove-coloured
woman, so greatly had recent events changed him. But the truth was, he
cared nothing for either of them nowadays. He was delivered from those
whimsical distressing fears. Something more serious had obliterated
those lighter apprehensions. He had no leisure now to think that
somebody had planned to marry him; all his thoughts were fixed on
matters so much more important that this was entirely forgotten.

Mrs Proctor was seated as usual in the place she loved, with her
newspapers, her books, her work-basket, and silver-headed cane at
the side of her chair. The old lady, like her son, looked serious.
She beckoned him to quicken his steps when she saw him appear at the
drawing-room door, and pointed to the chair placed beside her, all ready
for this solemn conference. He came in with a troubled face, scarcely
venturing to look at her, afraid to see the disappointment which he had
brought upon his dearest friend. The old lady divined why it was he did
not lift his eyes. She took his hand and addressed him with all her
characteristic vivacity.

"Morley, what is this you mean, my dear? When did I ever give my son
reason to distrust me? Do you think I would suffer you to continue in
a position painful to yourself for my sake? How dare you think such a
thing of me, Morley? Don't say so? you didn't mean it; I can see it in
your eyes."

The Rector shook his head, and dropped into the chair placed ready
for him. He might have had a great deal to say for himself could she
have heard him. But as it was, he could not shout all his reasons and
apologies into her deaf ear.

"As for the change to me," said the old lady, instinctively seizing upon
the heart of the difficulty, "that's nothing--simply nothing. I've not
had time to get attached to Carlingford. I've no associations with the
place. Of course I shall be very glad to go back to all my old