It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to say he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation of the mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd--a good name for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and patronymic might remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to be a good clergyman. As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to find my wife. "Here is Shepherd," I said, "with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as he understands I have a curate as good as myself--that is what the old fellow says--it might not suit me to take my family to his place for the summer. He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all good. His house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I should not like to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the letter for yourself, and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back so fresh and active that it will be no oppression to him to take the whole of the duty here. I will run and ask Turner whether it would be safe to move Connie, and whether the sea-air would be good for her." "One would think you were only twenty, husband--you make up your mind so quickly, and are in such a hurry." The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many years since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once more, in its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing between us and America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited me so that my wife's reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary to bring me to my usually quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old grannie's pardon, and set off to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving her to read and ponder Shepherd's letter. "What do you think, Turner?" I said, and told him the case. He looked rather grave. "When would you think of going?" he asked. "About the beginning of June." "Nearly two months," he said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Connie was not the worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?" "The better, I do think." "Has she had any increase of pain since?" "None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that." He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. "It is a long journey." "She could make it by easy stages." "It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such a thorough change in every way--if only it could be managed without fatigue and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between this and that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner you get her out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely fit for that yet." "A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose."