"You don't understand," said Mr. St. John. "The livings are given to the Fellows, Cicely, to people who have distinguished themselves. The dons have no right to alienate a living, as it were, to put it away from those who have a right to it, and give it to one like me." "What have they distinguished themselves in, papa? In Latin and Greek--which will do a great deal in the parish, don't you think? whereas you have distinguished yourself in Brentburn----" "I have not done very much, my dear," said the curate, shaking his head. "You have done all that has been done, papa; what are those college people worth? This fine gentleman!" cried Cicely, with scorn. (I wonder poor Mildmay did not feel himself shrink even within his four pillars and moreen curtains.) "He knows about art if you please, and shudders at the sight of Mr. Chester's mahogany. Poor old things," the girl cried, turning round to look at the old bookcases with her eyes streaming, "I only know how fond I am of them now!" I cannot tell how thankful her father was that the conversation had taken this turn. _He_ too felt tenderly towards the old unlovely walls which had sheltered him so long, and in the circumstances he felt it no harm to speak a little more strongly than he felt. He looked round upon the ghostly room so dark in all its corners. "A great many things have happened to us here," he said; "this was the first room we sat in, your mother and I. What changes it has seen! I don't know how to make up my mind to leave it." This brought back the girl to the original question. "But now," she said, drying her eyes, "there is no choice--we must leave it. I suppose that is what this Mr. Mildmay has really come about? He will give you some little time, I suppose. But papa, papa!" said Cicely, with a stamp of her foot to emphasize her words, "don't you see you _must_ decide something--make up your mind to something? Hoping on till the last day will do no good to any one. And to think we should be so deep in debt! Oh, papa, what are we to do?" "My dear, do not be hard upon me," said poor St. John; "I acknowledge, indeed, that it was my fault." "It was not your fault--but I don't blame anybody. There was illness and weakness, and some people can and some people can't," said Cicely, with that mercy and toleration which are always, I fear, more or less, the offspring of contempt. "Let us not go back upon that--but, oh, tell me, what is to be done now?" Mr. St. John shook his venerable head piteously. "What do you think, Cicely?" he said.