night? Your father told me you had a bad cold and there's
so much sickness about. You should be careful, Anthony, you know
you're not too strong, none of you Arnotts are. Well, I suppose you are
shooting, and most young men will risk a great deal in order to kill
God's other creatures."

The person addressed, a tall, broad-shouldered, rather pale young man
of about twenty-one, remarkable for his large brown eyes and a certain
sweet expression which contrasted somewhat oddly with the general
manliness of his appearance, lifted his cap and answered:

"No, Mr. Walrond, I am not shooting to-night. In fact, I was waiting
here to meet you."

"What for, Anthony? Nothing wrong up at the Hall, I hope."

"No, Mr. Walrond; why should there be anything wrong there?"

"I don't know, I am sure, only as a rule people don't wait for the
parson unless there is something amiss, and there seems to be so much
misfortune in this parish just now. Well, what is it, my boy?"

"I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is very
bad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from her
sisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say when I
asked him."

The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at the
Reverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand each
other. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was not
peculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his
"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for this
sudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a still
greater comfort to share our torments.

"Walk on with me, Anthony," he said. "I must hurry, I have every reason
to hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have left the
house, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he cannot prefer
one before the other."

"Yes, yes," said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me at
once."

"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crest
of Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is a
mile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhaps
we shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then Barbara lay almost at
the point of death; insensible."

"Insensible," muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible."

"Yes," went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I don't
understand much about s