uld not keep her heart so
much apart from him, as not to expect a little comfort from his
presence. And there had been comfort in his prayers and his looks; but
to hear him speak of wills and worldly affairs by her father's
deathbed, as any man might have done, went to Lucy's heart. She sat
down again, putting her hand softly upon the edge of the pillow, to
guard the peace of those last moments which were ebbing away so
rapidly. What if all the comfort of the world hung upon it? Could she
let her kind father be troubled in his end for anything so miserable?
Lucy turned her indignant eyes upon the others with silent resolution.
It was she who was _his_ protector now.

"But it must be done," said Mr Wentworth. "You will understand me
hereafter. Miss Wodehouse, you must send for Mr Waters, and in the
mean time I will do what I can to rouse him. It is no such cruelty as
you think," said the Curate, with humility; "it is not for money or
interest only--it concerns all the comfort of your life."

This he said to Lucy, who sat defending her father. She, for her part,
looked up at him with eyes that broke his heart. At that moment of all
others, the unfortunate Curate perceived, by a sudden flash of
insight, that nothing less than love could look at him with such
force of disappointment and reproach and wounded feeling. He replied
to the look by a gesture of mingled entreaty and despair.

"What can I do?" he cried--"you have no one else to care for you. I
cannot even explain to you all that is at stake. I must act as I
ought, even though you hate me for it. Let us send for Mr Waters;--if
there is a will--"

Mr Wentworth had raised his voice a little in the excitement of the
moment, and the word caught the dull ear of the dying man. The Curate
saw instantly that there was comprehension in the flicker of the
eyelash and the tremulous movement of the hand upon the bed. It was a
new and unaccustomed part which he had now to play; he went hurriedly
to the other side and leaned over the pillow to make out the
stammering words which began to be audible. Lucy had risen up also and
stood looking at her father still with her look of defence. As the
feeble lips babbled forth unintelligible words, Lucy's face grew
sterner and sterner. As for Miss Wodehouse, she stood behind, crying
and trembling. "Oh, Mr Wentworth, do you think it is returning
life--do you think he is better?" she cried, looking wistfully at the
Curate; and between th