et of old--Dons," said the Perpetual Curate; "that is,
they are the most accomplished set of fellows in existence, Lucy--or at
least they ought to be--but they are too superior to take an ordinary
living, and condescend to ordinary existence. Here has Carlingford been
twice vacant within a year--which is an unprecedented event--and Buller,
the only man who would think of it, is hanging on for a colonial
bishopric, where he can publish his book at his leisure. Buller is a
great friend of Gerald's. It is incredible, _Lucia mia_, but it is
true."

"Is it true? are you _sure_ it is true?" cried Lucy; and in spite of
herself she broke down and gave way, and let her head rest on the first
convenient support it found, which turned out, naturally enough, to be
Mr Wentworth's shoulder, and cried as if her heart was breaking. It is
so seldom in this world that things come just when they are wanted; and
this was not only an acceptable benefice, but implied the entire
possession of the "district" and the most conclusive vindication of the
Curate's honour. Lucy cried out of pride and happiness and glory in him.
She said to herself, as Mrs Morgan had done at the beginning of her
incumbency, "He will be such a Rector as Carlingford has never seen."
Yet at the same time, apart from her glorying and her pride, a certain
sense of pain, exquisite though shortlived, found expression in Lucy's
tears. She had just been making up her mind to accept a share of his
lowliness, and to show the world that even a Perpetual Curate, when his
wife was equal to her position, might be poor without feeling any of the
degradations of poverty; and now she was forestalled, and had nothing to
do but accept his competence, which it would be no credit to manage
well! Such were the thoughts to which she was reduced, though she had
come home from Prickett's Lane persuading herself that it was duty only,
and the wants of the district, which moved her. Lucy cried, although not
much given to crying, chiefly because it was the only method she could
find of giving expression to the feelings which were too varied and too
complicated for words.

All Carlingford knew the truth about Mr Wentworth's advancement that
evening, and on the next day, which was Sunday, the Church of St
Roque's was as full as if the plague had broken out in Carlingford,
and the population had rushed out, as they might have done in medieval
times, to implore the succour of the physician-saint. T