"You know Sally Dormer, the poor woman that's in a consumption, and that you and her ladyship are concerned about?"
"Yes."
"Her young brother called the day you came home, and told me the doctor had given her over, and she wanted to see you—she was pining and fretting because you was away; and she had been a terrible sinner, the boy said, and was afeared to meet her God. I meant to tell you the first minute I saw you, George; and then I was so glad to see you, and that put everything out of my head."
"And kept it out of your head for a week, Lucy—the prayer of a dying woman?"
"Ah, now you are angry with me."
"No, no; but I am sorry—very sorry. The poor soul is dead, perhaps. I might have been with her at the last hour, and might have given her hope and comfort. You should not forget such things as those, Lucy; your heart should serve instead of memory when a dying penitent's peace is in question."
"Oh, I am a hateful wretch, and I'd sooner you scolded me than not. But you had been away so long, and I had fretted about you, and was so glad to have you again."
She was in tears, and he held out his hand to her across the table.
"Don't cry, Lucy. Perhaps I do ill to leave you—even in God's service; but the call is strong."
He left his thought unspoken. He had been thinking that the man who gave himself to the service of Christ should have neither wife nor child. The earthly and the heavenly love were not compatible.