but you. There is no one else who could be such a friend to both

of us." Fred paused a moment, and then said, rather complainingly,
"And she ought to acknowledge that I have worked in order to pass.

She ought to believe that I would exert myself for her sake."
There was a moment's silence before Mr. Farebrother laid down his work,

and putting out his hand to Fred said--
"Very well, my boy. I will do what you wish."

That very day Mr. Farebrother went to Lowick parsonage on the nag
which he had just set up. "Decidedly I am an old stalk," he thought,

"the young growths are pushing me aside."
He found Mary in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals

on a sheet. The sun was low, and tall trees sent their shadows across
the grassy walks where Mary was moving without bonnet or parasol.

She did not observe Mr. Farebrother's approach along the grass,
and had just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-tan terrier,

which would persist in walking on the sheet and smelling at the
rose-leaves as Mary sprinkled them. She took his fore-paws in one hand,

and lifted up the forefinger of the other, while the dog wrinkled
his brows and looked embarrassed. "Fly, Fly, I am ashamed of you,"

Mary was saying in a grave contralto. "This is not becoming in a
sensible dog; anybody would think you were a silly young gentleman."

"You are unmerciful to young gentlemen, Miss Garth," said the Vicar,
within two yards of her.

Mary started up and blushed. "It always answers to reason with Fly,"
she said, laughingly.

"But not with young gentlemen?"
"Oh, with some, I suppose; since some of them turn into excellent men."

"I am glad of that mission" target="_blank" title="n.接纳；承认">admission, because I want at this very moment
to interest you in a young gentleman."

"Not a silly one, I hope," said Mary, beginning to pluck
the roses again, and feeling her heart beat uncomfortably.

"No; though perhaps wisdom is not his strong point,
but rather affection and sincerity. However, wisdom lies

more in those two qualities than people are apt to imagine.
I hope you know by those marks what young gentleman I mean."

"Yes, I think I do," said Mary, bravely, her face getting more serious,
and her hands cold; "it must be Fred Vincy."

"He has asked me to consult you about his going into the Church.
I hope you will not think that I consented to take a liberty in

promising to do so."
"On the contrary, Mr. Farebrother," said Mary, giving up the roses,

and folding her arms, but unable to look up, "whenever you have
anything to say to me I feel honored."

"But before I enter on that question, let me just touch a point on
which your father took me into confidence; by the way, it was that

very evening on which I once before fulfilled a mission from Fred,
just after he had gone to college. Mr. Garth told me what happened

on the night of Featherstone's death--how you refused to burn the will;
and he said that you had some heart-prickings on that subject,

because you had been the innocent means of hindering Fred from
getting his ten thousand pounds. I have kept that in mind,

and I have heard something that may relieve you on that score--
may show you that no sin-offering is demanded from you there.".

Mr. Farebrother paused a moment and looked at Mary. He meant
to give Fred his full advantage, but it would be well, he thought,

to clear her mind of any superstitions, such as women sometimes follow
when they do a man the wrong of marrying him as an act of atonement.

Mary's cheeks had begun to burn a little, and she was mute.
"I mean, that your action made no real difference to Fred's lot.

I find that the first will would not have been legally good after the
burning of the last; it would not have stood if it had been disputed,

and you may be sure it would have been disputed. So, on that score,
you may feel your mind free."

"Thank you, Mr. Farebrother," said Mary, earnestly. "I am grateful
to you for remembering my feelings."

"Well, now I may go on. Fred, you know, has taken his degree.
He has worked his way so far, and now the question is, what is

he to do? That question is so difficult that he is inclined to
follow his father's wishes and enter the Church, though you know

better than I do that he was quite set against that formerly.
I have questioned him on the subject, and I confess I see no

insuperable objection to his being a clergyman, as things go.
He says that he could turn his mind to doing his best in that vocation,

on one condition. If that condition were fulfilled I would do my
utmost in helping Fred on. After a time--not, of course, at first--

he might be with me as my curate, and he would have so much to do
that his stipend would be nearly what I used to get as vicar.

But I repeat that there is a condition without which all this good
cannot come to pass. He has opened his heart to me, Miss Garth,

and asked me to plead for him. The condition lies entirely in
your feeling."

Mary looked so much moved, that he said after a moment, "Let us
walk a little;" and when they were walking he added, "To speak

quite plainly, Fred will not take any course which would lessen the
chance that you would consent to be his wife; but with that prospect,

he will try his best at anything you approve."
"I cannot possibly say that I will ever be his wife, Mr. Farebrother:

but I certainly never will be his wife if he becomes a clergyman.
What you say is most generous and kind; I don't mean for a moment

to correct your judgment. It is only that I have my girlish,
mocking way of looking at things," said Mary, with a returning

sparkle of playfulness in her answer which only made its modesty
more charming.

"He wishes me to report exactly what you think," said Mr. Farebrother.
"I could not love a man who is ridiculous," said Mary, not choosing to

go deeper. "Fred has sense and knowledge enough to make him respectable,
if he likes, in some good worldly business, but I can never imagine

him preaching and exhorting, and pronouncing blessings, and praying
by the sick, without feeling as if I were looking at a caricature.

His being a clergyman would be only for gentility's sake, and I think
there is nothing more contemptible than such imbecile gentility.

I used to think that of Mr. Crowse, with his empty face and neat
umbrella, and mincing little speeches. What right have such men

to represent Christianity--as if it were an institution for getting up
idiots genteelly--as if--" Mary checked herself. She had been carried

along as if she had been speaking to Fred instead of Mr. Farebrother.
"Young women are severe: they don't feel the stress of action

as men do, though perhaps I ought to make you an exception there.
But you don't put Fred Vincy on so low a level as that?"

"No, indeed, he has plenty of sense, but I think he would not show
it as a clergyman. He would be a piece of professional affectation."

"Then the answer is quite decided. As a clergyman he could have
no hope?"

Mary shook her head.
"But if he braved all the difficulties of getting his bread

in some other way--will you give him the support of hope?
May he count on winning you?"

"I think Fred ought not to need telling again what I have already
said to him," Mary answered, with a slight resentment in her manner.

"I mean that he ought not to put such questions until he has done
something worthy, instead of saying that he could do it."

Mr. Farebrother was silent for a minute or more, and then, as they
turned and paused under the shadow of a maple at the end of a grassy

walk, said, "I understand that you resist any attempt to fetter you,
but either your feeling for Fred Vincy excludes your entertaining

another attachment, or it does not: either he may count on your
remaining single until he shall have earned your hand, or he may in any

case be disappointed. Pardon me, Mary--you know I used to catechise
you under that name--but when the state of a woman's affections

touches the happiness of another life--of more lives than one--I think
it would be the nobler course for her to be perfectly direct and open."

Mary in her turn was silent, wondering not at Mr. Farebrother's
manner but at his tone, which had a grave restrained emotion in it.