“Two little negro boys at a time,” replied Jenny, “according to the nursery-book.  Will you come and try, Phil?”

“You don’t mean to go out?”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny; “it depends on how mamma is, and how Edith gets on.”

Philip gave a long whistle of dismay.  Herbert looked at him wistfully, longing to hear him utter some word of congratulation or sympathy with his sister; but none was forthcoming.  Philip had disliked the engagement originally—­never had cared for Archie Douglas, and was not melted now that Jenny was more valuable than ever.  She knew him too well to expect it of him, and did not want to leave him to vex Herbert by any expression of his opinion on the matter, and on this account, as well as on that of the fatigue she saw on her patient’s features, she refused his kind offer of keeping guard while she went in the afternoon to church, adding that Herbert must rest, as Mrs. Duncombe was coming afterwards to take leave of him.

Philip shrugged his shoulders in horror, and declared that he should not return again till that was over; but he should look in again before he went home to settle about Herbert’s coming to York.

“York!” said Herbert, with a gasp, as Jenny brought his jelly, and arranged his pillows for a rest, while the dragoon’s boots resounded on the stairs.  “Please tell him to say no more about it.  I want them all to understand that I’m not going in for that sort of thing any more.”

“My dear, I think you had better not say things hotly and rashly; you may feel so very differently by and by.”

“I know that,” said Herbert; “but after all it is only what my ordination vows mean, though I did not see it then.  And this year must be a penance year; I had made up my mind to that before I fell ill.”

“Only you must get well,” said Jenny.

“That takes care of itself when one is sound to begin with,” said Herbert.  “And now that I have been brought back again, and had my eyes opened, and have got another trial given me, it would be double shame to throw it away.”

“I don’t think you will do that.”

“I only pray that all that seems burnt out of me by what I have seen, and heard, and felt, may not come back with my strength.”

“I could hardly pray that for you, Herbert,” said Jenny.  “Spirits are wanted to bear a clergyman through his work, and though you are quite right not to go in for those things, I should be sorry if you never enjoyed what came in your way.”

“If I never was tempted.”

“It need not be temptation.  It would not be if your mind were full of your work—­it would only be refreshment.  I don’t want my boy to turn stern, and dry, and ungenial.  That would not be like your Rector.”

“My Rector did not make such a bad start, and can trust himself better,” said Herbert.  “Come, Jenny, don’t look at me in that way.  You can’t wish me to go to York, and meet those rattling girls again?”