don't wish it. Sam and I have quarrelled.'

He looked up at her. He had hardly ever observed her before, though he
had been frequently conscious of her soft presence in the room. What a
kitten-like, flexuous, tender creature she was! She was the only one of
the servants with whom he came into immediate and continuous relation.
What should he do if Sophy were gone?

Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and things went on quietly
again.

When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy brought up his meals to him,
and she had no sooner left the room one day than he heard a noise on the
stairs. She had slipped down with the tray, and so twisted her foot that
she could not stand. The village surgeon was called in; the vicar got
better, but Sophy was incapacitated for a long time; and she was informed
that she must never again walk much or engage in any occupation which
required her to stand long on her feet. As soon as she was comparatively
well she spoke to him alone. Since she was forbidden to walk and bustle
about, and, indeed, could not do so, it became her duty to leave. She
could very well work at something sitting down, and she had an aunt a
seamstress.

The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on his
account, and he exclaimed, 'No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot let you
go. You must never leave me again!'

He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it
happened, she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek. He then asked
her to marry him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a respect
for him which almost amounted to veneration. Even if she had wished to
get away from him she hardly dared refuse a personage so reverend and
august in her eyes, and she assented forthwith to be his wife.

Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church were
naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered in and
alighted on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-service at
the communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of. The parson and a
neighbouring curate had entered at one door, and Sophy at another,
followed by two necessary persons, whereupon in a short time there
emerged a newly-made husband and wife.

Mr. Twycott knew perfectly well that he had committed social suicide by
this step, despite Sophy's spotless character, and he had taken his
measures accordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged