interesting; but as neither ladies nor
gentlemen in the nineteenth century are given to that useful medium of
disclosing their sentiments, the veil of privacy must remain over the
mind of the Rector's wife. She got her gardening gloves and scissors,
and went out immediately after, and had an animated discussion with the
gardener about the best means of clothing that bit of wall, over which
every railway train was visible which left or entered Carlingford. That
functionary was of opinion that when the lime-trees "growed a bit" all
would be right: but Mrs Morgan was reluctant to await the slow processes
of nature. She forgot her vexations about Mr Wentworth in consideration
of the still more palpable inconvenience of the passing train.

CHAPTER VI.

Miss Dora Wentworth relapsed into suppressed sobbing when the three
ladies were once more on their way. Between each little access a few
broken words fell from the poor lady's lips. "I am sure dear Frank did
not mean it," she said; it was all the plea his champion could find
for him.

"He did not mean what? to do his duty and save souls?" said Miss
Leonora--"is that what he didn't mean? It looks very much as if he
did, though--as well as he knew how."

"Quite so, Leonora," said Miss Wentworth.

"But he could not mean to vex the Rector," said Miss Dora--"my poor
dear Frank: of course he meant it for the very best. I wonder you
don't think so, Leonora--you who are so fond of missions. I told you
what I heard him saying to the young lady--all about the sick people
he was going to visit, and the children. He is a faithful shepherd,
though you won't think so; and I am sure he means nothing but--"

"His duty, I think," said the iron-grey sister, resolutely indifferent
to Miss Dora's little sniffs, and turning her gaze out of the window,
unluckily just at the moment when the carriage was passing Masters's
shop, where some engravings were hanging of a suspiciously devotional
character. The name over the door, and the aspect of the shop-window,
were terribly suggestive, and the fine profile of the Perpetual Curate
was just visible within to the keen eyes of his aunt. Miss Dora, for
her part, dried hers, and, beginning to see some daylight, addressed
herself anxiously to the task of obscuring it, and damaging once more
her favourite's chance.

"Ah, Leonora, if he had but a sphere of his own," cried Miss Dora,
"where he would have other things to think of than the rubric