"Oh, my darling, you are not ill? Have you been burned and not told me of it?" she gasped in terror.
"Oh no, mother," said May, trying to smile; "but it's just because I'm not burned, nor scared, nor horrible to look at, that I want Mr. Curzon. I want—I want——" And then May's high courage gave way, and she burst into tears.
"Let us pray," said the rector, quietly. And he and May's mother knelt down by the side of May's couch together.
When he rose up from his knees May's tears had ceased.
CHAPTER VII.
A MOMENTOUS DECISION.
The rector walked home through the starlight night with a thankful heart. It was possibly his sanguine temperament, backed by his strong faith in the Christ Who must reign until He had brought all to His Feet, that gave him such large success in his work; and against the background of this day two special subjects for thanksgiving stood out in strong relief: first, that he had received positive proof that he possessed the confidence of the majority of his parishioners; and secondly, that an accident—a deliverance from what might have been a horrible death—had given him an insight into the deeper side of May Webster's character. That she had this deeper side he had been fully assured, but hitherto he had been powerless to touch it.
To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the gratitude which she felt to God. For a moment the spiritual life that was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a deeper, truer, more lasting friendship had been laid—a friendship that might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her road to Heaven.
Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care. He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the sick, or the unhappy.