The Doctor heard him say to himself, “Thank God!” when they saw the lady coming out of a cottage near. The Doctor had long suspected that the clergyman and his wife were as sensible of one another’s danger as the most timid person in Bleaburn was of his own; and now he was sure of it. Henceforth, he understood that they were never easy out of one another’s sight; and that when the clergyman was sent for from the houses he was passing, his first idea always was that his wife was taken ill. It was so. They were not people of sentiment. They had settled their case with readiness and decision, when it first presented itself to them; and they never looked back. But it did not follow that they did not feel. They agreed, with the smallest possible delay, that they ought to succeed to the charge of Bleaburn on Mr. Finch’s death; that they ought to place their boys at school, and their two girls with their aunt till Bleaburn should be healthy again; and that they must stand or fall by the duty they had undertaken. As for separating, that was an idea mentioned only to be dismissed. They now nodded across the little street, as Mrs. Kirby proceeded on her round of visits, and her husband went home, to see who wanted him there. In the corner of the little porch was a man sitting, crouching and cowering as if in bodily pain. Mr. Kirby went up to him, stooped down to see his face (but it was covered with his hands), and at last ventured to remove his hat. Then the man looked up. It was a square, hard face, which from its make would have seemed immovable; but it was anything but that now. It is a strange sight, the working of emotion in a countenance usually as hard as marble! “Neale!” exclaimed Mr. Kirby. “Somebody ill at the farm, I am afraid.” “Not yet, Sir; not yet, Mr. Kirby. But Lord save us! we know nothing of how soon it may be so.” “Exactly so: that has been the case of every man, woman, and child, hour by hour since Adam fell.” “Yes, Sir; but the present time is something different from that. I came, Sir, to say * * I came, Mr. Kirby, because I can get no peace or rest, day or night; for thoughts, Sir; for thoughts.” Mr. Kirby glanced round him. “Come in,” said he, “Come into my study.” Neale followed him in; but instead of sitting down, he walked straight to the window, and seemed to be looking into the garden. Mr. Kirby, who had been on foot all the morning, sat down and waited, shaving away at a pen meanwhile. “On Sunday, Sir,” said Neale at last, in a whispering kind of voice, “you read that I have kept back the hire of the labourers that reaped down my fields, and that their cry has entered into the ears of the Lord.” “That _you_ kept back the hire of the labourer?” exclaimed Mr. Kirby, quickly turning in his seat, so as to face his visitor. He laid his hand on the pocket-bible on the table, opened at the Epistle of James, and, with his finger on the line, walked to the window with it.