“It wasn’t for Mr Walton’s sake,” returned Judy, pouting.  “You are very troublesome, auntie dear.  Mr Walton, she is so hard to take care of! and she’s worse since you came.  I shall have to give her up some day.  Do be generous, Mr Walton, and take my side—­that is, auntie’s.”

“I am afraid, Judy, I must thank your aunt for taking the part of my duty against my inclination.  But this kindness, at least,” I said to Miss Oldcastle, “I can never hope to return.”

It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed that I had made it.

“All obligations are not burdens to be got rid of, are they?” she replied, with a sweet smile on such a pale troubled face, that I was more moved for her, deliberately handing her over to the torture for the truth’s sake, than I care definitely to confess.

Thereupon, Miss Oldcastle led the way down the stairs, I followed, and Judy brought up the rear.  The affair was not so bad as it might have been, inasmuch as, meeting the mistress of the house in no penetralia of the same, I insisted on going out alone, and met Mrs Oldcastle in the hall only.  She held out no hand to greet me.  I bowed, and said I was sorry to find Mr Stoddart so far from well.

“I fear he is far from well,” she returned; “certainly in my opinion too ill to receive visitors.”

So saying, she bowed and passed on.  I turned and walked out, not ill-pleased, as my readers will believe, with my visit.

From that day I recovered rapidly, and the next Sunday had the pleasure of preaching to my flock; Mr Aikin, the gentleman already mentioned as doing duty for me, reading prayers.  I took for my subject one of our Lord’s miracles of healing, I forget which now, and tried to show my people that all healing and all kinds of healing come as certainly and only from His hand as those instances in which He put forth His bodily hand and touched the diseased, and told them to be whole.

And as they left the church the organ played, “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.”

I tried hard to prevent my new feelings from so filling my mind as to make me fail of my duty towards my flock.  I said to myself, “Let me be the more gentle, the more honourable, the more tender, towards these my brothers and sisters, forasmuch as they are her brothers and sisters too.”  I wanted to do my work the better that I loved her.

Thus week after week passed, with little that I can remember worthy of record.  I seldom saw Miss Oldcastle, and during this period never alone.  True, she played the organ still, for Mr Stoddart continued too unwell to resume his ministry of sound, but I never made any attempt to see her as she came to or went from the organ-loft.  I felt that I ought not, or at least that it was better not, lest an interview should trouble my mind, and so interfere with my work, which, if my calling meant anything real, was a consideration of vital import.  But one thing I could not help