“He says,” replied Jenny, “that this gentleman must be rational; that he has nothing the matter with him now, but that he is low, and ripe for anything.  Don’t laugh, you naughty boy, he said you were ripe for anything, and that he must—­yes, he must—­be turned out to grass somehow or other for the winter, and do nothing at all.”

“I begin to see what you are driving at, Mrs. Joan, you look so triumphant.”

“Yes,” said Jenny, blushing a little, and looking quite young again; “I believe poor mamma would be greatly reconciled to it, if Herbert were to see me out to Natal.”

“Is that to be the way?”

“It would be very absurd to make Archie come home again for me,” said Jenny.  “And everything else is most happily smoothed for me, you know; Edith has come quite to take my place at home; mamma learnt to depend on her much more than on me while I was with Herbert.”

“And it has made her much more of a woman,” added Herbert.

“Then you know that full statement poor Mr. Moy put forth when he left the place, on his wife’s death, quite removed all lingering hesitation on papa’s part,” added Jenny.

“It ought, I am sure!” said Julius.

“So, now, if Herbert will go out with me, it seems to me to be all right,” said Jenny, colouring deeply, as she made this lame and impotent conclusion.

“My father wishes it,” said Herbert.  “I believe he meant to see you to-day to ask leave of absence for me.  That is what he wishes; but I have made up my mind that I ought to resign the curacy—­where I have never been any use to you—­though, if I had been well, I meant to have worked a year with you as a priest.”

“I don’t like to lose you, but I think you are right.  Your beginning with me was a mistake.  There is not enough work for three of us; but you know Easterby would be delighted to have you at St. Nicholas.  He says his most promising people talk of what you said to them when they were ill, and he asked me if you could possibly come to him.”

“I think it would be better to begin in a new place, further from home,” said Herbert, quietly.

And both knew what he meant, and how hard it would be to be the clergyman he had learnt to wish to be, if his mother were at hand to be distressed by all he did or did not do.

“But, any way,” added Herbert, “I hope to have some time longer at Compton before I go.  Next Sunday, if I only can.”

His mind was evidently full of the Feast of the Sunday, and Julius answered, “Whichever Sunday you are strong enough, of course, dear fellow.  You had better come with him, Jenny, and sleep at the Rectory.”

“Oh! thank you.  I should like nothing so much; and I think they will spare me that one day.”

“You will come in for a grand gathering, that is, if poor Cecil accepts.  Miles thinks she ought to be godmother.”

“Oh!”