But, rightly or wrongly, no such thought crossed Frank's mind. He was just as good a Churchman as ever--why not? Just as fond of his own ideal of what a parish and a Church Service ought to be--why not? But the only thought which did rise in his mind was one of utter self-abasement. "Oh, how blind I have been! How I have wasted my time in laying down the law to these people: fancying myself infallible, as if God were not as near to them as He is to me--certainly nearer than to any book on my shelves--offending their little prejudices, little superstitions, in my own cruel self-conceit and self-will! And now, the first time that I forget my own rules; the first time that I forget almost that I am a priest, even a Christian at all! that moment they acknowledge me as a priest, as a Christian. The moment I meet them upon the commonest human ground, helping them as one heathen would help another, simply because he was his own flesh and blood, that moment they soften to me and show me how much I might have done with them twelve months ago, had I had but common sense!" He knelt down and prayed by the old man, for him and for himself. "Would it be troubling you, sir?" said the old man at last. "But I'd like to take the Sacrament before I go." "Of course. Whom shall I ask in?" The old man paused awhile. "I fear it's selfish: but it seems to me I would not ask it, but that I know I'm going. I should like to take it with my maid, once more before I die." "I'll go for her," said Frank, "the moment Thurnall comes back to watch you." "What need to go yourself, sir? Old Sarah will go, and willing." Thurnall came in at that moment. "I am going to fetch Miss Harvey. Where is she, Captain?" "At Janey Headon's, along with her two poor children." "Stay," said Tom, "that's a bad quarter, just at the fish-house back. Have some brandy before you start?" "No! no Dutch courage!" and Frank was gone. He had a word to say to Grace Harvey, and it must be said at once. He turned down the silent street, and turned up over stone stairs, through quaint stone galleries and balconies such as are often huddled together on the cliff sides in fishing towns; into a stifling cottage, the door of which had been set wide open in the vain hope of fresh air. A woman met him, and clasped both his hands, with tears of joy. "They're mending, sir! They're mending, else I'd have sent to tell you. I never looked for you so late." There was a gentle voice in the next room. It was Grace's. "Ah, she's praying by them now. She'm giving them all their medicines all along! Whatever I should have done without her?--and in and out all day long, too; till one fancies at whiles the Lord must have changed her into five or six at once, to be everywhere to the same minute."