“O God, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “I know not what to do. Guide me and teach me to do Thy will.” Presently he fell on his knees humbly and prayed. Now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject penitent, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness. “O Lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “Make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil Thy holy will. Save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and I know that I am unfitted for a great position.” When he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read Stonehenge’s letter for the third time. He took it in his hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. For once in his life he could not make up his mind. But when she saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited face seemed wan and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. He appeared on a sudden to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders. “Theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried. He handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said: “Stonehenge doesn’t think I’m fit to be a bishop. He’s offered me a Welsh deanery.” “But you won’t accept it?” He bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike. “I’m not sure whether I have the right to refuse.” “What does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?” “He means nothing,” answered the Canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “He’s merely gilding the pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. I feel in me the power to do so much more, and St. Olphert’s offers me nothing. It’s a sleepy, sordid place. I might as well be buried alive. I don’t want to leave London.” His voice was so pitiful that Lady Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him. “I’m only a servant of the Church,” he said. “I don’t know that I have the right to refuse to go where I am sent. Perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all I’m good for. Oh, Sophia, I’m so unhappy!”