"Oh, hang the parish!" put in the Vicar impulsively, and then coughed down his words. "The parish cannot expect to have you always, child."
"It is a hard winter, papa, as to work; many of the men are out of it entirely, as you know; and that entails poverty and sickness on the wives and children. I have not told you how very many are sick."
"Some of the ladies will see to them. You cannot be neglecting your own duties always for their sakes."
"Once I get to Leamington, papa, there is no knowing when I may be allowed to return. Mrs. Page kept me six months once; I well remember that."
"And if she wishes now to keep you for twelve months, twelve you must stay."
"Oh, papa!"
"You are taking a lesson from Ella Winter's book," said the Vicar. "She did not want to leave home in the autumn; but it was all the better for her that she should. Her case, however, was different from yours, and I do not say she was wrong in wishing to remain with her uncle, so old and sick. I am not old, and I am not sick."
But Maria thought her father was sick, though not of course with the mortal sickness of the Squire; ay, and that, if not old, he was yet ageing. His health certainly seemed breaking a little, his eyesight was failing him; now and then his memory misled him. He displayed less interest than ever he had done in parish work, leaving nearly everything to the curate, Mr. Plympton, and Maria. His liking for old port was growing upon him and he would sit all the evening with the bottle at his elbow, and was roused with difficulty when bedtime came. Altogether Maria would a vast deal rather not leave home; but she saw she should have to do it. Perhaps, in her heart, she shrank also from being away from Philip.
"I'm sure, papa, I can't think how things in the parish will get on without me," she said, as she laid down the letter. "Think what a state they were in when we returned in the summer."
The Vicar felt half offended.