"Miss Marjoribanks is at least ten years----"

"Oh, stuff!--keep your old-maidish memory to yourself, Molly; who cares
for a dozen years or so? Hasn't she all the old Scotchman's practice and
his savings?--and a fine woman yet--a fine woman, eh? Well, yes, I think
so; and then here's this little wretch of a sister-in-law. Why, the
doctor's taken your _role_, Wentworth, eh? Well, I suppose what ought to
be your _role_, you know, though I _have_ seen you casting glances at
the strange little creature yourself."

"Indeed, I assure you, you are entirely mistaken," said Mr Wentworth,
hastily, with a sudden flush of either indignation or guilt. The curate
glanced at Lucy Wodehouse, who was walking demurely by his side, but
who certainly did prick up her ears at this little bit of news. She saw
very well that he had looked at her, but would take no notice of his
glance. But Lucy's curiosity was notably quickened, notwithstanding; St
Roque's Cottage was wonderfully handy, if the perpetual curate of the
pretty suburban church saw anything worth visiting there. Lucy drew up
her pretty shoulders in her grey sister-of-mercy cloak, and opened her
blue eyes a little wider. She was still in circumstances to defy her
reverend lover, if his eyes had declined upon lower attractions than her
own. She looked very straight before her with unpitying precision down
the road, on which St Roque's Church and Cottage were becoming already
visible. The whole party were walking briskly over a path hard with
frost, which made their footsteps ring. The air was still with a winterly
touch, benumbed with cold, yet every sound rang sharply through that
clear cloudless atmosphere, reddened without being warmed by the sun as
it approached the west. It was Christmas again, and they were wending
their way towards St Roque's to assist at the holiday decorations, for
which cartloads of laurel and holly had been already deposited within
the church. Lucy Wodehouse was chief directress of these important
operations. Her sister had accompanied her, partly to admire Lucy's
work, and partly to call at the cottage and see how Nettie was going
on. Mr Wodehouse himself had come merely for the pride and pleasure
of seeing how much they were indebted to his little girl; and the
attendance of the curate was most easily explainable. It was, indeed,
astonishing how many extremely necessary and natural "calls of duty"
should bring Mr Wentworth's path parallel to that of the