feeling all his little edifice of personal consolation
falling to the winds, and not caring much though everything else should
follow. He was in this state of mind when Miss Wodehouse came to him,
moving with noiseless steps, as everybody did in the stricken house.

"Oh, Mr Wentworth, I am so glad you have come," said that mild woman,
holding out both her hands to him. She was too much agitated to say
anything more. She was not equal to the emergency, or any emergency,
but sank down on a chair, and relieved herself by tears, while the
Curate stood anxiously by, waiting for what she had to say to him. "My
father is very ill," she said, like Lucy, through her crying; "I don't
know what good anybody can do; but thank God you've come home--now I
shall feel I have somebody to apply to, whatever happens," said poor
Miss Wodehouse, drying the eyes that were suffused again the next
moment. Her helpless distress did not overwhelm the spectator, like
Lucy's restrained trouble, but that was natural enough.

"Tell me about it," said Mr Wentworth; "the cause--can I guess at the
cause? it is something about your--"

"Oh hush! don't say his name," cried Miss Wodehouse. "Yes, yes, what
else could it be? Oh, Mr Wentworth, will you close the door, please,
and see that there's no one about. I dare not speak to you till I am
sure there's no one listening; not that I suspect anybody of
listening," said the distressed woman; "but one never knows. I am
afraid it is all my fault," she continued, getting up suddenly to see
that the windows were closed. "I ought to have sent him away, instead
of putting my trouble upon you; and now he is in greater danger than
ever. Oh, Mr Wentworth, I meant it for the best; and now, unless you
can help us, I don't know what I am to do."

"I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong," said the Curate,
making her sit down, and drawing a chair close to her. He took her
hand, by way of compelling her attention--a fair, soft hand, too, in
its restless, anxious way. He held it in a brotherly grasp, trying to
restore her to coherence, and induce her to speak.

"I don't know enough about business to tell you," she said. "He was in
danger when I threw him upon your charity; and oh, Mr Wentworth, thank
you, thank you a thousand times, for taking him in like a brother. If
Lucy only knew! But I don't feel as if I dared to tell her--and yet I
sometimes think I ought, for your--I mean for all our sakes. Yes, I wil