“So you see that my temporal concerns are over and done with. In regard to the spiritual, I have had the unutterable honour and pleasure of a visit from the Bishop himself. He was all fatherly goodness and kindness. The dear Clover is always at hand for reading, and I can depend on him utterly for those last commendations that are to smooth my way down the Valley of the Shadow. There is nothing wanting. And now you have come!”
The Canon’s wasted face was both radiant and serene.
The grief that had so often shown there seemed to have passed away, and Quentillian found it almost incredible that he had ever seen the Canon angry, or weighed down by a leaden depression of spirits.
“Is he really happy, all the time?” Quentillian asked Lucilla.
“Yes, all the time. Even when he has pain. But they say there won’t be any more pain, most likely, now. He will just sink, gradually. If you knew how very little he is living on, even now, you would be surprised.”
“Are you doing the nursing?”
“He wants a trained nurse. One has been sent for. He thinks that it will spare me,” said Lucilla, smiling a little.
In the days that followed, Owen saw how difficult Lucilla found it to be so spared.
The nurse was an efficient and conscientious woman, and the Canon quickly became dependent upon her. He begged Owen to spend as much time as possible with Lucilla, who remained downstairs, replying to the innumerable letters and the enquirers who came to the house.
She was now only with her father for a brief morning visit, and the hour in the afternoon when the nurse took her exercise out of doors. Very often Quentillian, at the Canon’s request, was also with them then.