"'For this is the Law and the Prophets!'" murmured Helmsley. "Sir, will you tell me one thing—are there many poor people in Weircombe?"
The clergyman looked a trifle surprised.
"Why, yes, to tell the exact truth, they are all poor people in Weircombe," he answered. "You see, it is really only a little fishing village. The rich people's places are situated all about it, here and there at various miles of distance, but no one with money lives in Weircombe itself."
"Yet every one seems happy," said Helmsley thoughtfully.
"Oh, yes, every one not only seems, but is happy!" and the clergyman smiled. "They have the ordinary troubles that fall to the common lot, of course—but they are none of them discontented. There's very little drunkenness, and as a consequence, very little quarrelling. They are a good set of people—typically English of England!"
"If some millionaire were to leave every man, woman, and child a thousand or more pounds apiece, I wonder what would happen?" suggested Helmsley.
"Their joy would be turned to misery!" said the clergyman—"and their little heaven would become a hell! Fortunately for them, such a disaster is not likely to happen!"
Helmsley was silent; and after his kindly visitor had left him that day sat for a long time absorbed in thought, his hands resting idly on the osiers which he was gradually becoming too weak to bend.
It was now wearing on towards the middle of June, and on one fine morning when Mary was carefully spreading out on a mending-frame a wonderful old flounce of priceless point d'Alençon lace, preparatory to examining the numerous repairs it needed, Helmsley turned towards her abruptly with the question—
"When are you and Angus going to be married, my dear?"