“I certainly knew not, however, that you were so far gone in latitudinarianism, as I find, unfortunately, to be the case.  I hold a responsible—­a sacred situation, as a Protestant minister, Mr. Clement, and consequently cannot suffer such doctrine to spread through my flock.  Besides, had you taken an active part in promoting this Reformation, as, with your learning and talents I know you could have done—­I make no allusion now to your unhappy principles—­had you done so it was my fixed intention to have increased your salary ten pounds per annum, out of my own pocket, notwithstanding the great claims that are upon me.”

“My legal salary, I believe, Mr. Lucre, is seventy-five pounds per annum, and the value of your benefice is one thousand four hundred.  I may say the whole duty is performed by me.  Out of that one thousand four hundred, I receive sixty; but I shall add nothing more—­for indeed I have yet several visits to make before I go home.  As to my orthodoxy, sir, you will take your own course.  To my bishop I am ready to explain my opinions; they are in accordance with the Word of God; and if for entertaining them I am deprived of the slender support for which I labor, as your curate, my trust in God will not be the less.”

Mr. Lucre declined any reply, but bowed very politely, and rang the bell, to order his carriage, as a hint to Mr. Clement that the conversation was closed.  The latter bowed, bade him good morning, and departed.

When Mr. Clement said he had some visits to make, we must, lest the reader might suppose they are visits of ceremony, follow his steps in order to learn the nature of these visits.

About half a mile from the Glebe house of Castle Cumber, the meek and unassuming curate entered into an abode of misery and sorrow, which would require a far more touching pen than ours to describe.  A poor widow sat upon the edge of a little truckle bed with the head of one of her children on her lap; another lay in the same bed silent and feeble, and looking evidently ill.  Mr. Clement remembered to have seen the boy whom she supported, not long before playing about the cottage, his rosy cheeks heightened into a glow of health and beauty by the exercise, and his fair, thick-clustered hair blown about by the breeze.  The child was dying, and the tender power of a mother’s love prompted her to keep him as near her breaking heart as she could, during the short space that remained of his brief existence.  When Mr. Clement entered, the lonely mother looked upon him with an aspect of such bitter sorrow, of such helpless supplication in her misery, as if she said, am I left to the affliction of my own heart!  Am I cut off from the piety and comfort, which distress like mine ought to derive from Christian sympathy and fellowship!  Have I not even a human face to look upon, but those of my dying children!  Such in similar circumstances are the questions which the heart will ask.  She could not immediately speak, but with the head of her dying boy upon her heart she sat in mute and unbroken agony, every pang of her departing orphan throwing a deeper shade of affliction over her countenance, and a keener barb of sorrow into her heart.