“Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interesting fact to Mr. Walton.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Oldcastle,” I said. “A clergyman ought to know something, and the more the better, of the troubles of his flock. Sympathy is one of the first demands he ought to be able to meet—I know what a headache is.”
The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned; this time unaccompanied by a bow.
“I trust, Mr. Walton, I TRUST I am above any morbid necessity for sympathy. But, as you say, amongst the poor of your flock,—it IS very desirable that a clergyman should be able to sympathise.”
“It’s quite true what grannie says, Mr. Walton, though you mightn’t think it. When she has a headache, she shuts herself up in her own room, and doesn’t even let me come near her—nobody but Sarah; and how she can prefer her to me, I’m sure I don’t know.”
And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle in her bright gray eye.
“The subject is not interesting to me, Pet. Pray, Mr. Walton, is it a point of conscience with you to wear the surplice when you preach?”
“Not in the least,” I answered. “I think I like it rather better on the whole. But that’s not why I wear it.”
“Never mind grannie, Mr. Walton. I think the surplice is lovely. I’m sure it’s much liker the way we shall be dressed in heaven, though I don’t think I shall ever get there, if I must read the good books grannie reads.”
“I don’t know that it is necessary to read any good books but the good book,” I said.