Carr was a very energetic, wide-awake, useful man. He could put his hands to anything. No work, provided it was useful, was derogatory in his eyes—he was always cheerful, always bright and obliging. Even Gerald Wyndham could scarcely have made a more popular curate at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold than did this young man.
"If anything could provoke me about him, it is that he is too sunny," Marjory said one day to her sister.
Lilias was silent. It occurred to her, only she was not sure, that in those dark, quick, keen eyes there could come something which might sustain and strengthen on a day of clouds as well as sunshine.
It came now, when Marjory suddenly left the room, and Carr abruptly let the great bale of merino drop at his feet.
"Are you worried about anything?" he asked, in that direct fashion of his which made people trust him very quickly.
Lilias colored all over her face.
"I suppose I ought not to be silly," she said, "but my brother—you see he is my only brother—his marriage has made a great gulf between us."
Carr looked at her sharply.
"You are not jealous?" he said.
"I don't know—we used to be great chums. I think if I were sure he was happy I should not be jealous?"