“I am delighted to hear it. It would be hard to catch a better, and it’s one a rich man, as they say he is, seldom does catch. But I always liked his round, good-humoured, honest face. If I remember rightly, he had a sore trial in his wife. It is generally understood that she ran away with some fellow or other. But that was before he came to live in Glaston.--Would you mind looking in upon Rachel for a few minutes, sir? She is not so well to-day, and has not been out of her own room.” “With all my heart,” answered Wingfold. “I am sorry to hear she is suffering.” “She is always suffering more or less,” said the little man. “But she enjoys life notwithstanding, as you may clearly see. It is to her only a mitigated good, and that, I trust, for the sake of an unmitigated one.--Come this way, sir.” He led the curate to the room next his own. It was a humble little garret, but dainty with whiteness. One who did not thoroughly know her, might have said it was like her life, colourless, but bright with innocence and peace. The walls were white; the boards of the uncarpeted floor were as white as scrubbing could make old deal; the curtains of windows and bed were whiteness itself; the coverlet was white; so was the face that looked smiling over the top of it from the one low white pillow. But although Wingfold knew that face so well, he almost started at the sight of it now: in the patience of its suffering it was positively lovely. All that was painful to see was hidden; the crooked little body lay at rest in the grave of the bed-clothes; the soul rose from it, and looked, gracious with womanhood, in the eyes of the curate. “I cannot give you my hand,” she said smiling, as he went softly towards her, feeling like Moses when he put off his shoes, “for I have such a pain in my arm, I cannot well raise it.” The curate bowed reverentially, seated himself in a chair by her bedside, and, like a true comforter, said nothing. “Don’t be sorry for me, Mr. Wingfold,” said her sweet voice at length. “The poor dwarfie, as the children call me, is not a creature to be pitied. You don’t know how happy I am as I lie here, knowing my uncle is in the next room, and will come the moment I call him--and that there is one nearer still,” she added in a lower voice, almost in a whisper, “whom I haven’t even to call. I am his, and he shall do with me just as he likes. I fancy sometimes, when I have to lie still, that I am a little sheep, tied hands and feet--I should have said all four feet, if I am a sheep”--and here she gave a little merry laugh--“lying on an altar--the bed here--burning away, in the flame of life, that consumes the deathful body--burning, heart and soul and sense, up to the great Father.--Forgive me, Mr. Wingfold, for talking about myself, but you looked so miserable! and I knew it was your kind heart feeling for me. But I need not, for that, have gone on at such a rate. I am ashamed of myself!”