"Poor Leo!" he said. "I could not do that," as he again thought of how attached she had become to the mare, and how the handsome little creature had seemed to divert her attention from the past. "It would not do, Mary," he said aloud. "Poor girl! I seem to have been very hard upon her about Tom Candlish, and it would be too bad to deprive her of the mare." "She appears very fond of it," said Mary gravely. "And the more fond she gets of it the less she thinks about anything else, eh?" Mary was silent. "She never mentions him to you now?" "No, Hartley." "Hah! That's a good job. It was hard work and painful; but I nipped that in the bud." Mary was silent, and looked at her brother uneasily. "Well, what is it, dear? Not comfortable?" "Yes, Hartley, I am quite comfortable," said Mary, smiling sadly. "But you looked at me in a peculiar way. You don't believe that Leo thinks about him now?" "I don't know, Hartley. I am not sure." "Oh! but I am. It's all right, my dear. The girl's ideas are quite changed now, and I am beginning to be hopeful that she thinks a little of North. Why, my dear Mary, how ghastly pale you do look to-day. Are you worse?" "No, no, dear; indeed no. I--I fancy I am getting better." "That's right; but I am trespassing on you by talking too much. How thoughtless man can be!" "And how thoughtful," said Mary, as she took his hand in hers, and held it to her cheek. "Don't reproach yourself, Hartley; you give me pain." The curate bent down and kissed her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, so that her brother should not see how they were suffused with tears. "Patience," she said softly; "give me patience to be unselfish, and bear my bitter lot." CHAPTER ELEVEN. JONADAB MOREDOCK SEES A GHOST. Moredock was better by the next Saturday, and he got up with the intention of having a good long day at the church. "Must keep friends with the doctor," he muttered. "Can't afford to die yet. So much to do first." He looked up at his clock, and the clock's sallow round face looked down at him, pointing out how time was getting on, and kept on its monotonous _chick chack_, as the old pendulum swung from side to side. "Mornin', old Moredock," cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair, curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping it carefully outside, as he held in at arm's length an old patched boot, which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great stitches to be put into the upper leather. For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out: "Mornin', young Chegg. So you've brought it at last." "At last! Well, I haven't had it so very long. Sixpence." "Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?"