“I see,” she said, “but I don’t agree with you.”
“I dare say not,” he answered regretfully. “I fear there are many points on which you would not agree with me.”
The words sounded presumptuous and conceited, but Cicely understood that they were neither.
“It is the rock so many split upon in the present day,” pursued Mr. Hayle, his voice sounding as if he was thinking aloud.
“What?” said Cicely, somewhat mischievously.
“The setting up of reason against revelation, of private judgment against authority,” replied the young clergyman mournfully.
Cicely was not the least vexed. It was impossible for her to take offence at whatever Mr. Hayle could say—boyish as he appeared, he was so honestly in earnest, so single-minded in his conviction—but she felt inclined to smile. And this she knew would wound the young man far more keenly than the most indignant contradiction. In the present instance, however, she found no difficulty in evading the argument she dreaded, for before there was time for her to answer, they came within sight of their destination, and their attention was diverted by what they saw.
The cottage where lay the poor sick child was one of a row of hovels, undrained, unventilated, low-roofed, and dilapidated, so altogether wretched as to make one inclined to doubt whether, after all, the poor of great cities, where some amount of attention to sanitary rules is compulsory, have not the advantage over their country neighbours. Even on this bright June morning Notcotts looked abjectly miserable; no amount of sunshine could gild over its squalid wretchedness. At the gate of little Joe’s home stood a group of half-a-dozen men and women; they fell back without speaking as Mr. Hayle and Cicely came up. Cicely was going in, but her companion stopped her. “Let me ask how he is, first,” he said somewhat abruptly, gently putting her aside as he hastened in. There was no one in the kitchen; the clergyman passed through it to an inner room, and Cicely stood at the door, waiting.
It was some minutes before Mr. Hayle appeared. When he did so, his face was very grave. “It is as I feared,” he said gently, “the poor little boy is dead, Miss Methvyn.”
Cicely made a step or two forward into the kitchen, out of the sight of the curious group at the gate; then two or three large tears trickled down her face.