which
pleased his fancy, and could judge and reject the dangerous principles
beneath; while Gerald, the loftier, purer intelligence, should get so
hopelessly lost in mazes of sophistry and false argument, to the peril
of his work, his life, and all that he could ever know of happiness?
Such were the thoughts that passed through the mind of the Perpetual
Curate as he went rapidly through the winding country-road going
"home." Perhaps he was wrong in thinking that Gerald was thus superior
to himself; but the error was a generous one, and the Curate held it
in simplicity and with all his heart.

Before he reached the house he saw his father walking under the
lime-trees, which formed a kind of lateral aisle to the great avenue,
which was one of the boasts of the Wentworths. The Squire was like most
squires of no particular character; a hale, ruddy, clear-complexioned,
well-preserved man, looking his full age, but retaining all the vigour
of his youth. He was not a man of any intellect to speak of, nor did he
pretend to it; but he had that glimmering of sense which keeps many a
stupid man straight, and a certain amount of natural sensibility and
consideration for other people's feelings which made persons who knew no
better give Mr Wentworth credit for tact, a quality unknown to him. He
was walking slowly in a perplexed manner under the lime-trees. They were
all in glorious blossom, filling the air with that mingling sense of
fragrance and music which is the soul of the murmurous tree: but the
short figure of the Squire, in his morning-coat, with his perplexed
looks, was not at all an accessory in keeping with the scene. He was
taking his walk in a subdued way, pondering something--and it puzzled
him sorely in his straightforward, unprofound understanding. He shook
his head sometimes as he went along, sad and perplexed and
unsatisfactory, among his limes. He had got a note from Gerald that
morning; and how his son could intend to give up living and station, and
wife and children, for anything in heaven or earth, was more than the
Squire could understand. He started very much when he heard Frank's
voice calling to him. Frank, indeed, was said to be, if any one was, the
Squire's weakness in the family; he was as clever as Gerald, and he had
the practical sense which Mr Wentworth prized as knowing himself to
possess it. If he could have wished for any one in the present
emergency, it would have been Frank--and he turned round o