The Curate moved his fingers about an inch apart, and then rejoined them, in time to a deep sigh, but he did not raise his head; while Tom Morrison stood, with brow contracted, evidently stricken by some powerful emotion which he was struggling to master; and at last he did, speaking calmly and with deep pathos in his appealing voice. "Sir, I am a man, and rough, and able to fight hard and bear trouble; but I have a wife who loved, almost worshipped--" "Set not your affections upon things on earth," said the Rector, in a low, stern voice, as if in warning to himself. Tom paused a few moments, till the speaker had finished, and then he went on-- "She almost worshipped that child--I ask you humbly, sir, for her sake, don't say no. At a time like this she is low, and weak, and ill. Parson, if you say no, it will go nigh to break her heart." "Morrison," said the Rector, slowly, with his eyes still half closed--"as a man and a fellow-Christian, I sympathise with you deeply. I am more grieved than I can express. By your neglect you have thrown upon me a painful duty. The fold was open--always open--from the day of its birth for the reception of your poor lamb, but in your worldliness you turned your back upon it till it was too late. I say it with bitter sorrow--too late. Let this be a lesson to you both for life. It is a hard lesson, but you must bear it. I cannot do what you ask." The wheelwright stood with the veins in his forehead swelling, and his clenched fists trembled with the struggle that was going on within his breast; but the face of his sorrowing wife seemed to rise before him, and he gained the mastery once more, and turned to the silent Curate. "Mr Paulby, sir, you married Mary and me, and, we seem to know you here, sir, as our parson--" The Rev Eli winced as he heard the emphasis on the _you_. "Please help me, sir," continued Morrison, appealingly; "you've known me many years, and I hope you don't think I'd be the man to wilfully refuse to do my duty. Will you say a word for me, sir? You understand these things more than me." The Curate raised his head sharply, and as his eyes met those of the suffering man, they were so full of sympathy, that the look was like balm to the poor fellow, and he took heart of grace. "I will, Morrison--I will," said he, huskily; and he turned to his brother clergyman. "Mr Mallow," he said, gently--and there was as much appeal in his voice as in that of the suppliant before them--"forgive me for interfering between you and one of your parishioners, but I do it in no meddling spirit, only as a servant of our Great Master, when I ask you whether in such a case as this the Church would wish us to adhere so strictly to those laws made for our guidance so many years ago. I think you might-- nay, as a Christian clergyman, I think you should--accede to our suffering brothers prayer." "God bless you, sir, for this!" ejaculated Morrison, in a broken voice.