He had a brother, a poor clergyman, with a large family, and a wife, who would not understand in the least why Ernest should interest himself in a stranger--_a girl_. If he wanted some one to spend his money upon, why not take one of the children? he thought he heard her say; and certainly she would not understand, much less respond to, any appeal he could make to _her_. What could he do? If any other suggestion swept across Mr. Ashford’s face in the dark or through his heart, nobody was there to see or divine it. He sat thus without ringing for his lamp till it was quite late, and was much discomposed to be found sitting in the dark when a messenger arrived with a note from the Deanery about the extra service for the next saint’s-day. He was annoyed to be found so, being conscious, perhaps, of reasons for the vigil which he would not have cared to enter upon; for he was shy and sensitive, and it had often happened to him to be laughed at, because of his undue anxiety about others. “What is it to you?” had been often said to him, and never with more occasion than now. For, after all, what did it matter to the Minor Canon what became of Lottie Despard? Whether she and her stepmother should “get on” together, or if they should never “get on,” but yet might manage to live under the same roof a cat-and-doggish life--what was it to him? One way or other, it would not take sixpence out of his pocket, or affect his comfort in any way. But yet he could not get it out of his head. No one in the house had thought of coming to his room to light his lamp, to see that all was in order for him. He was not served with precision, as was the Signor, for he was fond of saving his servants trouble and making excuses for them. And when the man came from the Deanery and followed the maid into the study, where she went groping, declaring that her master was not at home, the Minor Canon was uncomfortable, finding himself thus taken by surprise. “You need not wait for an answer. I will send one in the morning,” he said, when the candles on the writing-table had been lit with a match, and he had read the note. He felt that his confused and troubled thoughts might be read in his eyes. But nobody had any clue to the subject of these thinkings; and how could anyone suspect that it was a matter of such absolute indifference to himself that was occupying his thoughts--a thing with which he had nothing in the world to do? CHAPTER XXXII. WHAT ROLLO HAD TO MARRY ON.