ritualist, which was only less abominable than being a
non-conformist, but he had been foisted on him without his knowledge
or will. The Vicar had simply waked up one day out of his confused
twilight to a state of fearful lucidity and found the young man there.
Worse than all it was through the third Mrs. Cartaret that he had got
there.

For the Vicar of Greffington had applied to the Additional Curates Aid
Society for a grant on behalf of his afflicted brother, the Vicar of
Garthdale, and he had applied in vain. There was a prejudice against
the Vicar of Garthdale. But the Vicar of Greffington did not relax his
efforts. He applied to young Mrs. Rowcliffe, and young Mrs. Rowcliffe
applied to her step-mother, and not in vain. Robina, answering by
return of post, offered to pay half the curate's salary. Rowcliffe
made himself responsible for the other half.

Robina, in her compact little house in St. John's Wood, had become the
prey of remorse. Her conscience had begun to bother her by suggesting
that she ought to go back to her husband now that he was helpless
and utterly inoffensive. She ought not to leave him on poor Gwenda's
hands. She ought, at any rate, to take her turn.

But Robina couldn't face it. She couldn't leave her compact little
house and go back to her husband. She couldn't even take her turn.
Flesh and blood shrank from the awful sacrifice. It would be a living
death. Your conscience has no business to send you to a living death.

Robina's heart ached for poor Gwenda. She wrote and said so. She said
she knew she was a brute for not going back to Gwenda's father. She
would do it if she could, but she simply couldn't. She hadn't got the
nerve.

And Robina did more. She pulled wires and found the curate. That
he was a ritualist was no drawback in Robina's eyes. In fact, she
declared it was a positive advantage. Mr. Grierson's practices would
wake them up in Garthdale. They needed waking. She had added that Mr.
Grierson was well connected, well behaved and extremely good-looking.

Even charity couldn't subdue the merry devil in Robina.

"I can't see," said Mary reading Robina's letter, "what Mr. Grierson's
good looks have got to do with it."

Rowcliffe's face darkened. He thought he could see.

* * * * *

But Mr. Grierson did not wake Garthdale up. It opened one astonished
eye on his practices and turned over in its sleep again. Mr. Grierson
was young, and the villag