hich
was common to all the Wentworths. But when he saw his aunt Leonora
looking at him, the Perpetual Curate stood to his arms again. "I have
still to learn that the Rector has anything to do with it," said the
young Evangelist of Wharfside.

"It is in his parish, and he thinks he has," said Miss Leonora. "I wish
you could see your duty more clearly, Frank. You seem to me, you know,
to have a kind of zeal, but not according to knowledge. If you were
carrying the real Gospel to the poor people, I shouldn't be disposed to
blame you; for the limits of a parish are but poor things to pause for
when souls are perishing; but to break the law for the sake of diffusing
the rubric and propagating Tractarianism--"

"Oh, Leonora, how can you be so harsh and cruel?" cried Miss Dora;
"only think what you are doing. I don't say anything about
disappointing Frank, and perhaps injuring his prospects for life; for,
to be sure, he is a true Wentworth, and won't acknowledge that; but
think of my poor dear brother, with so many sons as he has to provide
for, and so much on his mind; and think of ourselves and all that we
have planned so often. Only think what you have talked of over and
over; how nice it would be when he was old enough to take the Rectory,
and marry Julia Trench--"

"Aunt Dora," said the Curate, rising from the table. "I shall have to
go away if you make such appeals on my behalf. And besides, it is only
right to tell you that, whatever my circumstances were, I never could
nor would marry Julia Trench. It is cruel and unjust to bring in her
name. Don't let us hear any more of this, if you have any regard for
me."

"Quite so, Frank," said Miss Wentworth; "that is exactly what I was
thinking." Miss Cecilia was not in the habit of making demonstrations,
but she put out her delicate old hand to point her nephew to his seat
again, and gave a soft slight pressure to his as she touched it. Old
Miss Wentworth was a kind of dumb lovely idol to her nephews; she
rarely said anything to them, but they worshipped her all the same for
her beauty and those languid tendernesses which she showed them once
in ten years or so. The Perpetual Curate was much touched by this
manifestation. He kissed his old aunt's beautiful hand as reverently
as if it had been a saint's. "I knew you would understand me," he
said, looking gratefully at her lovely old face; which exclamation,
however, was a simple utterance of gratitude, and would not have b