“Bayle!” cried the doctor, laying his hand upon the curate’s knee, and with his former hesitancy chased away by an eager look, “are you in earnest?”
“In earnest, my dear sir? What about?”
“About—about the old place—the garden.”
“Earnest!—yes. But I am going to fight it down,” cried Bayle, laughing.
“Don’t laugh, man. I am serious—things are serious with me.”
“I was afraid so; but I dared not ask you. Come, come, Mrs Luttrell,” he continued gently, “don’t take it to heart. Troubles come to us all, and when they do there is their pleasant side, for then we learn the value of our friends, and I hope I am one.”
“Friend, my dear!” said Mrs Luttrell, weeping gently, “I’m sure you have always seemed to me like a soil. Do: pray do, Joseph, tell him all.”
“Be patient, wife, and I will—all that I can.”
The doctor paused and cleared his throat, while Mrs Luttrell sat with her hand in the curate’s.
“You have set me thinking,” said the doctor at last; “and what you said is like a ray of sunshine in my trouble.”