The Rector of St. Marks

"Then you knew she was coming," Lucy said, an uneasy thought flashing

across her mind as she remembered the picnic, and the scene she had

stumbled upon.

But Arthur's reply, "I did not know she was coming, I only knew it was

like her," reassured her for a time, making her resolve to emulate the

virtues which Arthur seemed to prize so highly. What a difference his

presence made in that wretched room! She did not mind the poverty now,

or care if her dress was stained with the molasses left in the chair,

and the inquisitive child with tattered gown and bare brown legs was

welcome to examine and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as she

chose.

Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the subdued

expression of his face as, kneeling by the sick woman's bedside, he

said the prayers she had hungered for more than for the contents of

Anna's basket, now being purloined by the children crouched upon the

hearth and fighting over the last bit of gingerbread.

"Hush-sh, little one," and Lucy's white, jeweled hand rested on the

head of the principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty of her face

and the authoritative tone of her voice, kept quiet till the prayer

was over and Arthur had risen from his knees.

"Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my deaconess when Miss

Ruthven is gone. Your very presence has a subduing effect upon the

little savages. I never knew them so quiet before for a long time,"

Arthur said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached

Anna's ear, but brought no pang of jealousy, or a sharp regret for

what she felt was lost forever.

She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving that by every means

in her power she would further her rival's cause, and the hot tears

which dropped so fast upon Mrs. Hobbs' pillow while Arthur said the

prayer was but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy thought,

because she felt so sorry for the suffering woman to whom she had

brought so much comfort.

"God bless you wherever you go," she said, "and if there is any great

good which you desire, may He bring it to pass."

"He never will--no, never," was the sad response in Anna's heart, as

she joined the clergyman and Lucy outside the door, the former

pointing to the ruined slippers and asking how she ever expected to

walk home in such dilapidated things.

"I shall certainly have to carry you," he said, "or your blistered

feet will ever more be thrust forward as a reason why you cannot be my

deaconess."

He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and the party went

gaily on, Anna keeping a watchful care over Lucy, picking out the

smoothest places and passing her arm around her slender waist as they

were going up a hill.