ave you begin to argue with me; you are not my
aunt Leonora," said the Curate, half amused in spite of himself. This
encouraged the anxious woman, and, clasping his arm closer than ever,
she poured out all her heart.

"Oh, Frank, if you could only modify your views a little! It is not
that there is any difference between your views and ours, except just
in words, my dear. Flowers are very pretty decorations, and I know you
look very nice in your surplice; and I am sure, for my part, I should
not mind--but then that is not carrying the Word of God to the people,
as Leonora says. If the heart is right, what does it matter about the
altar?" said aunt Dora, unconsciously falling upon the very argument
that had occurred to her nephew's perplexed mind in the pulpit. "Even
though I was in such trouble, I can't tell you what a happiness it was
to take the sacrament from your hands, my dear, dear boy; and but for
these flowers and things that could do nobody any good, poor dear
Leonora, who is very fond of you, though perhaps you don't think it,
could have had that happiness too. Oh, Frank, don't you think you
could give up these things that don't matter? If you were just to tell
Leonora you have been thinking it over, and that you see you've made a
mistake, and that in future--"

"You don't mean to insult me?" said the young man. "Hush--hush; you
don't know what you are saying. Not to be made Archbishop of
Canterbury, instead of Vicar of Skelmersdale. I don't understand how
you could suggest such a thing to me."

Miss Dora's veil, which she had partly lifted, here fell over her face,
as it had kept doing all the time she was speaking--but this time she
did not put it back. She was no longer able to contain herself, but wept
hot tears of distress and vexation, under the flimsy covering of lace.
"No, of course, you will not do it--you will far rather be haughty, and
say it is my fault," said poor Miss Dora. "We have all so much pride, we
Wentworths--and you never think of our disappointment, and how we all
calculated upon having you at Skelmersdale, and how happy we were to
be, and that you were to marry Julia Trench--"

It was just at this moment that the two reached the corner of
Prickett's Lane. Lucy Wodehouse had been down there seeing the sick
woman. She had, indeed, been carrying her dinner to that poor
creature, and was just turning into Grange Lane, with her blue ribbons
hidden under the grey cloak, and a little baske