It was autumn weather--October. A lot of us were steaming over to Worcester in the train. Miss Whitney from Cheltenham, and a friend of hers--a maiden lady as ancient as herself, one Miss Conaway, of Devonshire--were staying at the Hall. Miss Conaway did not know Worcester, and was now being taken to see it--especially the cathedral. Lady Whitney, Helen, Anna, and I made up the party, and we filled the carriage. My being with them arose from chance: I had come over accidentally that morning to Whitney Hall. Of course Helen hoped to see something besides the cathedral her curate. For in June Mr. Leafchild, then in priest's orders, entered on his new curacy at Worcester, there to stay until the expected living should fall in. "How is he?" I asked Helen, bending over the arm of the seat that divided us. "Working himself to death," she whispered back to me, her tone a cross one. "He said he was glad there would be plenty of work, you know. And it is a large parish." "But he need not let it put _everything_ else out of his head." "Meaning you?" "I have not heard from him for more than a week. Papa had a letter from Dr. Leafchild this morning. He said in it that Charles, when he last wrote, complained of being poorly." "A great many curates do get very overtaxed." "Oh, and what do you think?" went on Helen. "He is actually beginning to have scruples about taking that living, on the score that there'll be hardly any work to do." "But--he will take it!" "Yes, I suppose he _will_, because of me; but it will go against the grain, I fancy. I do think one may have too strict a conscience." It was past one o'clock when we reached Worcester. Lady Whitney complained in the train of having started too late. First of all there was luncheon to be taken at the Star: that brought it to past two. Then various other things had to be done: see the cathedral, and stay the afternoon service, go over the china works at Diglis, and buy a bundle of articles at the linen-draper's. All these duties over, they meant to invade Mr. Leafchild's lodgings in Paradise Row. They took the draper's to begin with, the whole of them trooping in, one after another, like sheep into a pen: and I vow that they only came out again when the bell was going for three-o'clock service. Helen was not in a genial mood: at this rate there would not be much time left for visiting the curate. "It was Aunt Ann's fault," she grumbled to me--"and mamma's. They were a good half-hour looking at the stuff for the children's winter frocks. Aunt Ann maintained that cashmere was best, mamma held to merino. All the shelves they had taken down! I would not be a linen-draper's shopman for the world." Just in time, were we, to get into our seats before the procession of clergy and choristers came in. The chanter that afternoon was Mr. Leafchild's rector: I knew him to speak to. But there's no space to linger upon details.