rol," as Miss Wodehouse said, that the sisters could forget what
had happened so lately--the loss which had made a revolution in their
world. Miss Wodehouse, who for the first time in her life was busy,
and had in hand a quantity of mysterious calculations and lists to
make out, sat at the table in the centre of the room, with her desk
open, and covered with long slips of paper. Perhaps it was to save her
Rector the trouble that the gentle woman gave herself so much labour;
perhaps she liked putting down on paper all the things that were
indispensable for the new establishment. At all events, she looked up
only to give Mr Wentworth a smile and sisterly nod of welcome as he
came in and made his way to the corner where Lucy sat, not
unexpectant. Out of the disturbed atmosphere he had just left, the
Perpetual Curate came softly into that familiar corner, feeling that
he had suddenly reached his haven, and that Eden itself could not
have possessed a sweeter peace. Lucy in her black dress, with traces
of the exhaustion of nature in her face, which was the loveliest face
in the world to Mr Wentworth, looked up and welcomed him with that
look of satisfaction and content which is the highest compliment one
human creature can pay to another. His presence rounded off all the
corners of existence to Lucy for that moment at least, and made the
world complete and full. He sat down beside her at her work-table with
no further interruption to the _tete-a-tete_ than the presence of the
kind elder sister at the table, who was absorbed in her lists, and
who, even had that pleasant business been wanting, was dear and
familiar enough to both to make her spectatorship just the sweet
restraint which endears such intercourse all the more. Thus the
Perpetual Curate seated himself, feeling in some degree master of the
position; and surely here, if nowhere else in the world, the young man
was justified in expecting to have his own way.

"They have settled about their marriage," said Lucy, whose voice was
sufficiently audible to be heard at the table, where Miss Wodehouse
seized her pen hastily and plunged it into the ink, doing her best to
appear unconscious, but failing sadly in the attempt. "Mr Proctor is
going away directly to make everything ready, and the marriage is to
be on the 15th of next month."

"And ours?" said Mr Wentworth, who had not as yet approached that
subject. Lucy knew that this event must be far off, and was not
agitated