When Helen went home from London, carrying with her the mortification that came of her interrupted marriage and Captain Foliott's delinquency, she began to do what she had never done in her life before, busy herself a little in the parish: perhaps as a safety-valve to carry off her superfluous anger. The curate was a middle-aged man with a middle-aged wife and two babies, and Helen had no scruple in going about with him, here, there, and everywhere. To the schools, to the church, to practise the boys, to visit the poor, went she. But when in a few months that curate's heart was made glad by a living--two hundred a-year and a five-roomed Vicarage--and Mr. Leafchild came in his place, it was a little different. She did not run about with the new curate as she had with the old, but she did see a good deal of him, and he of her. The result was they fell in love with one another. For the first time in her life the uncertain god, Cupid, had pierced the somewhat invulnerable heart of Helen Whitney. But now, could anything be so inappropriate, or look more hopeless? Charles Leafchild, B.A., curate of Buttermead, positively only yet reading for his full title, scantily paid, no prospect of anything better, lacking patronage; and Miss Helen Whitney, daughter of Sir John Whitney, baronet! Looking at it from a practical point of view, it seemed that he might just as well have expected to woo and wed one of the stars in the sky. On the bleak February morning that followed Helen's expedition to Timberdale, Mr. Leafchild came down from his chamber and entered his sitting-room. The fire, a small one, for Mrs. Bean had received a general caution to be sparing of his coal, burnt brightly in the grate. He stood over it for a minute or two, rubbing his slender hands at the blaze: since he left the West Indies he had felt the cold more keenly than formerly. Then he turned to the breakfast-table, and saw upon it, a small portion of cold neck of mutton, an uncut loaf, and a pat of butter. His tea stood there, already made. "If I leave the meat, it will do for dinner," he thought: and proceeded to make his meal of bread-and-butter. Letty Bean, who chiefly waited on him, came in. "A letter for you, sir," she said, handing him a note. He took it, looked at the handwriting, which was thick and sprawly and not familiar to him, and laid it beside his plate. "Sir John Whitney's footman brought it, sir," continued Letty, volunteering the information: and a hot colour flushed the curate's face as he heard it. He opened it then. Short and peremptory, it merely requested the Reverend Charles Leafchild to call upon Sir John Whitney that morning at Whitney Hall. "Is the man waiting for an answer, Letty?" "No, sir. He went away as soon as he gave it me."