The parson was looking out of the window down the road.
“Ah, how d’ye do, my dear?” he said, in unwontedly quiet accents. “I was just looking out, for I sent over to Oakby to inquire how that poor lad is to-day.”
“We have heard,” said Virginia. “I don’t think he is any worse. And, uncle, I saw him yesterday; he sent for me to give me a message for you.”
“A message! Well, my lassie, what did he say?”
Virginia came and stood behind the chair in which her uncle had seated himself.
“He wished me to tell you that he had been making up his mind to take orders, and that he loved Elderthwaite so much that he meant to ask you if you would let him come and be your curate, that you and he together might set things right here. But he said that now that will never be. And he sent his love, and I was to ask you to reform Elderthwaite for his sake. He said, ‘Tell him I know he can, better than any one, if he will.’”
Virginia paused, as her voice faltered.
“Why, bless my soul,” cried the parson, “what does the lad mean? Why, I’m one of the old abuses myself.”
“Yes—yes—uncle. But that is what he said. You must not be one of the abuses. He said you might do it all, if you would, because you love the place more than any one can.”
There was a silence. The parson sat still.