Of course, he would try to get work again—another curacy, or a tutorship, or a secretaryship. But Jimmy knew by all his past experience and observation how difficult, how almost impossible it was for a man in his position, once out of employment, ever to get in again. If he could only know who was to be the successor of his dying rector, he might, at a proper time, try to gain his favor to be made his curate. Well—he thought—“while he preacheth to others he must not himself be a castaway.” As Hetty had told him, he must “reck his own read.” He must do the best he could and leave the result to divine Providence. If he could only hold his present position. What a commodious house he had for his dear ones! What an affluent garden! What a spacious glebe! What a lovely home, taken altogether! What a paradisal one for his family! If he could only retain it by any amount of work—by doing double duty, tenfold duty in the parish! He would not shrink from any labor, any hardship, to retain this refuge for his beloved ones, he thought. Then his conscience reproached him—he was thinking too much of his own, too little of his parish; and besides, the idea of remaining in this sweet home was but a dream, for if even the successor of his dying rector should favor him so far as to retain him in the curacy, he could not continue to reside in the rectory—where, of course, the new rector would take up his abode—but would have to find a small house in the village suitable to his small salary as a curate. But even this last favor was highly improbable. The new rector would have some young clerical friend whom he would take as his curate. They always did, he remembered. “Is there much sickness or suffering in the parish, Jimmy?” Hetty asked one day when they happened to be alone in the parlor together, Jennie being in her bedroom with her baby, and Elspeth in the kitchen over her cooking. “Sickness? Why, no! Why do you ask?” inquired the curate. “Is there any distress, then?” “Why, no! They are all unusually well just now, and very hilarious over the prospect of the arrival of their new squire and his bride and all the high jinks of their reception. Why did you ask such questions, Hetty?” “Because, Jimmy, you always look as solemn as a hearse!” “Do I? Well, in view of coming events, I cannot be expected to look very merry, can I, Hetty?” he inquired, rather evasively. “You refer to the expected arrival of the fraudulent claimant and bigamous husband, and your duty to strike him down, “‘Even in his pitch of pride.’ But I don’t see why that should make you look so solemn. And Jennie home, too! And the dear baby! Oh, Jimmy, if you cannot appreciate the blessings around you and be grateful and happy in the midst of them, the Lord help you! though He certainly has a discouraging job of you, just now!” “I preach to my people and weary them, no doubt. You preach to me and—avenge them!” laughed the Reverend James.