“And what made you go so far—quite from the south to the north of England?”
“Again necessity, my dear. I was out of employment, and your mother and myself were living in cheap lodgings in the village, when I received a letter from Dr. Orton—an old friend of my father, who had heard of my misfortune—inviting me to come with my wife to Haymore and take his parish and occupy his parsonage for a year, during which he was ordered by his physician to travel for his health. I gratefully accepted the offer.”
“And how do you like it, papa?”
“Very much, my dear. The rectory is a beautiful old house, very conveniently fitted with all modern improvements and very comfortably furnished. The house is covered with ivy and the porches with climbing plants. There is a luxuriant old garden, full of flowers and herbs and all kinds of fruits and vegetables that our climate will grow, and there is a lawn with old oak trees.”
“How lovely!” impulsively exclaimed Jennie. But then her face fell.
“Yes, it is lovely,” assented the minister, who had not noticed the change in his child’s countenance. “And I like it so well that I shall grieve to leave it.”
“Oh, but you are sure of it for a twelvemonth!” exclaimed Jennie, eager to please her father, yet again stopping short at the sudden memory of what must meet him at Haymore.
“Oh, no, my dear. I am not sure of the place for a month even. Orton has heart disease, and, though he may live for months or years, he may drop dead at any moment. He may be dead now. And in such a case, you see, the very same thing that happened to me at Medge would happen again at Haymore.”
“How, papa?”
“If Orton should die, his successor would turn me adrift, to put in my place some friend of his own.”