“What is it, Thomas?” she said, holding her eyes wider open than was needful, to show him she was capable.

“Nothing to frighten you, darling,” he answered, “but plenty to be done.  The river is out, and the people are all asleep.  Most of them will have to wait for their breakfast, I fear.  We shall have no prayers this morning.”

“But plenty of divine service,” rejoined Helen, with a smile for what her aunt called one of his whims, as she got up and seized some of her garments.

“Take time for your bath, dear,” said her husband.

“There will be time for that afterward,” she replied.  “What shall I do first?”

“Wake the servants, and tell them to light the kitchen fire, and make all the tea and coffee they can.  But tell them to make it good.  We shall get more of every thing as soon as it is light.  I’ll go and bring the boat.  I had it drawn up and moored in the ruins ready to float yesterday.  I wish I hadn’t put on my shirt though:  I shall have to swim for it, I fear.”

“I shall have one aired before you come back,” said Helen.

“Aired!” returned her husband:  “you had better say watered.  In five minutes neither of us will have a dry stitch on.  I’ll take it off again, and be content with my blue jersey.”

He hurried out into the rain.  Happily there was no wind.

Helen waked the servants.  Before they appeared she had the fire lighted, and as many utensils as it would accommodate set upon it with water.  When Wingfold returned, he found her in the midst of her household, busily preparing every kind of eatable and drinkable they could lay hands upon.

He had brought his boat to the church yard and moored it between two headstones:  they would have their breakfast first, for there was no saying when they might get any lunch, and food is work.  Besides, there was little to be gained by rousing people out of their good sleep:  there was no danger yet.

“It is a great comfort,” said the curate, as he drank his coffee, “to see how Drake goes in heart and soul for his tenants.  He is pompous—­a little, and something of a fine gentleman, but what is that beside his great truth!  That work of his is the simplest act of Christianity of a public kind I have ever seen!”

“But is there not a great change on him since he had his money?” said Helen.  “He seems to me so much humbler in his carriage and simpler in his manners than before.”

“It is quite true,” replied her husband.  “It is mortifying to think,” he went on after a little pause, “how many of our clergy, from mere beggarly pride, holding their rank superior—­as better accredited servants of the Carpenter of Nazareth, I suppose—­would look down on that man as a hedge-parson.  The world they court looked down upon themselves from a yet greater height once, and may come to do so again.  Perhaps the sooner the better, for then they will know which to choose.  Now they serve Mammon and think they serve God.”