“Why, what ails you, Jennie, my child?” inquired her father.
She found her tongue at last, and said, because she did not know what else to say:
“You never told me.”
“I explained that I reserved the information for our meeting,” gently replied the curate.
“How long have you been at Haymore?” was her next question.
“About twelve weeks. Not quite three months. But don’t look so horrified, my dear. If I had changed my religion, instead of having changed my parish, you could scarcely seem more confounded,” said the curate, with a little laugh.
“Oh, papa dear, what made you leave dear old Medge?” she dolefully inquired.
“Necessity, Jennie. My old rector died——”
“Oh! Good old Dr. Twomby! Has he gone?” exclaimed Jennie in a tone of grief.
“Yes, dear—full of years and honors. It would be impious to mourn the departure of so sainted a man. His successor was a young Oxonian, who gave me warning and put in a classmate of his own as his curate.”