urprised to see Mr Wentworth, who did not knock
at that green door more than a dozen times in a week, on the average.
The Curate walked between the sisters on their way towards their
favourite "district." Such a position would scarcely have been
otherwise than agreeable to any young man. Dear old Miss Wodehouse was
the gentlest of chaperones. Old Miss Wodehouse people called her, not
knowing why--perhaps because that adjective was sweeter than the harsh
one of middle age which belonged to her; and then there was such a
difference between her and Lucy. Lucy was twenty, and in her sweetest
bloom. Many people thought with Mr Wentworth that there were not other
two such eyes in Carlingford. Not that they were brilliant or
penetrating, but as blue as heaven, and as serene and pure. So many
persons thought, and the Perpetual Curate among them. The grey cloak
fell in pretty folds around that light elastic figure; and there was
not an old woman in the town so tender, so helpful, so handy as Lucy
where trouble was, as all the poor people knew. So the three went down
Prickett's Lane, which leads from George Street towards the canal--not
a pleasant part of the town by any means; and if Mr Wentworth was
conscious of a certain haze of sunshine all round and about him,
gliding over the poor pavement, and here and there transfiguring some
baby bystander gazing open-mouthed at the pretty lady, could any
reasonable man be surprised?

"I hope your aunts were quite well, Mr Wentworth, when you heard from
them last," said Miss Wodehouse, "and all your people at home. In such
a small family as ours, we should go out of our wits if we did not
hear every day; but I suppose it is different where there are so many.
Lucy, when she goes from home," said the tender elder sister, glancing
at her with a half-maternal admiration--"and she might always be
visiting about if she liked--writes to me every day."

"I have nobody who cares for me enough to write every week," said the
Curate, with a look which was for Lucy's benefit. "I am not so lucky
as you. My aunts are quite well, Miss Wodehouse, and they think I had
better go up to town in May for the meetings," added Mr Wentworth,
with a passing laugh; "and the rest of my people are very indignant
that I am not of their way of thinking. There is Tom Burrows on the
other side of the street; he is trying to catch _your_ eye," said the
Curate, turning round upon Lucy; for the young man had come to such a