“Yes, I know how you feel about it. It’s the personal relation you want, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t care about their personal relation to me. They might all hate me if they liked. But the quickest way to get at people’s hearts for any purpose is to make them like one.”
“Don’t be worried, May,” said he. “You will soon get to know them all, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
“Ah, but just think of the state things are in! I went to see an old woman yesterday. She couldn’t understand at first why I came. I told her I was the new vicar’s daughter, and she asked me what I wanted. The late vicar used never to visit anybody, she said.”
“Yes, it will be hard work.”
“I wish you could come here after you were ordained,” said May, “as father’s curate.”
“I must stop at Cambridge,” said Ted. “You wouldn’t wish me to give that up?”
“No, I suppose not,” said May; “and yet, I don’t know. I think parish work is the highest in the world.”
“There is plenty of that to do in Cambridge,” said Ted, “for that matter; but I am not the man to do it. I can’t do it as you can—and father,” he added.
“Ah, but what is good work in other lines compared to any work in that?” said May, earnestly—“especially for a man who means to be a clergyman.”