'Than parsons and women,' said Lucilla, with a gleam of her old archness.

'Exactly so. He must see religion in the world, not out of it.'

'After all, I have not heard who is this Mr. Currie, and how you know
him.'

'I know him through his brother, who is building the church in Cecily
Row.'

'A church in Cecily Row! St. Cecilia's? Who is doing it? Honor
Charlecote?'

'No; I am.'

'You! Tell me all about it,' said Lucilla, leaning forward to listen
with the eager air of interest which, when not half so earnest, had been
always bewitching.

Poor Robert looked away, and tried to think himself explaining his scheme
to the Archdeacon. 'The place is in frightful disorder, filled with
indescribable vice and misery, but there is a shadow of hope that a few
may be worked on if something like a mission can be organized.
Circumstances seemed to mark me out as the person to be at the cost of
setting it on foot, my father's connection with the parish giving it a
claim on me. So I purchased the first site that was in the market, and
the buildings are in progress, chapel, schools, orphanage, and rooms for
myself and two other clergy. When all the rest is provided for, there
will remain about two hundred and fifty pounds a year--just enough for
three of us, living together.'

He durst not glance towards her, or he would have seen her cheek white as
wax, and her eye seeking his in dismayed inquiry. There was a pause;
then she forced herself to falter--'Yes. I suppose it is very
right--very grand. It is settled?'

'The Archdeacon has seen the plans, the Bishop has consented.'

Long and deep was the silence that fell on both.

Lucilla knew her fate as well as if his long coat had been a cowl. She
would not, could not feel it yet. She must keep up appearances, so she
fixed her eyes steadily on the drawing her idle hands were perpetrating
on the back of a letter, and appeared absorbed in shading a Turk's head.

If Robert's motives had not been unmixed, if his zeal had been alloyed by
temper, or his self-devotion by undutifulness; if his haste had been
self-willed, or his judgment one-sided, this was an hour of retribution.
Let her have all her faults, she was still the Lucy who had flown home to
him for comfort. He felt as if he had dashed away the little bird that
had sought refuge in his bosom.

Fain would he have implored her pardon, but for the stern resolution to
abstain from any needless word or look, su