Lucy could not help wondering why a man who had such abundant means to his hand of holding and influencing his people used so few of them. Why was his church not beautiful? How did he exist spiritually without the sacramental grace so abundantly vouchsafed at St. Elwyn's?
She had a glimpse deep down into the man once. One evening at St. Elwyn's, when Carr had come to supper, the conversation turned upon a rather serious epidemic of typhoid fever that had only just been overcome in Hornham and which had caused a widespread distress among the poorer classes.
"I'm getting up a fund," Father Blantyre said, "to relieve some of the worst cases and to send as many as possible of the convalescents off to the seaside. Now, Lucy, my dear, what will you stump up? This girl's rolling in money, Carr! She's more than she knows what to do with!"
Lucy noticed—no one else did—that Mr. Carr flushed a little and started as Blantyre finished speaking.
She turned to her brother. "I'll give you a hundred pounds, dear," she said.
"Good girl!" he shouted in high good humour.
Lucy turned to Carr. "I suppose you've a great many destitute cases in St. Luke's?" she asked.
"Very many, I'm sorry to say," he answered sadly. "I've done what I could, but I've hardly any money myself until next quarter-day, and our people are nearly all of them poor." He thought with gentle envy of these wealthy folk who were able to do so much, while he, alas! could do so little.
"I'll subscribe something to St. Luke's, too," Lucy said. "I'll give you the same, Mr. Carr. I'll write you a cheque after supper."
"That's a sportswoman!" said Father Blantyre; "good for you, Lucy!"