On Tuesday morning prayers were to be read in the little iron church. Never full even on Sundays, this one weekday service was very miserably attended. Home did not often take it, the duty generally devolving on the youngest curate in the place. He was hurrying past to-day, having many sick and poor to attend to, when he met young Davenport—a curate only just ordained.
"I am glad I met you," said the young man, coming up at once and addressing the older clergyman with a troubled face. "There would not have been time to have gone round to your place. See, I have had a telegram; my father is ill. I want to catch a train at twelve o'clock to go and see him; I cannot if I take this service. Will it be possible for you to do the duty this morning?"
"Perfectly possible," answered Home heartily. "Go off at once, my dear fellow; I will see to things for you until you return."
The young man was duly grateful, and hurried away at once, and Home entered the little building. The moment he did so he saw the reason of it all. Mr. Harman was in the church; he was in the church and alone. His daughter was not with him. There was no sermon that day, and the short morning prayers were quickly over. The half-dozen poor who had come in went out again; but Mr. Harman did not stir. Home took off his surplice, and hurried down the church. He meant now to speak to Mr. Harman, if Mr. Harman did not speak to him; but he saw that he would speak. As he approached the pew the white-headed old man rose slowly and came to meet him.
"Sir, I should like to say a few words to you."
"As many as you please, my dear sir; I am quite at your service."
Home now entered the pew and sat down.
"Shall we talk here or in the vestry?" he inquired, after a moment's silence.
"I thought perhaps you would come to my house later on," said Mr. Harman. "I have a long story to tell you; I can tell it best at home. I am very ill, or I would come to you. May I expect you this evening?"
"I will certainly come," answered Home. "What is your address?"