She seated herself on a bench, under a cedar tree, just with- out the wicket, and George Morley, our old friend the Oxonian, seated himself by her side familiarly, but with a certain rever- ence. Lady Montfort was a few years older than himself—his cousin—he had known her from his childhood.
"What has happened!" he repeated, "nothing new. I have just come from visiting the good bishop."
"He does not hesitate to ordain you .?"
"No—but I shall never ask him to do so."
"My dear cousin, are you not overscrupulous? You would be an ornament to the Church, sufficient in all else to justify your compulsory omission of one duty, which a curate could perform for you."
Morley shook his head sadly. "One duty omitted!" said he. " But is it not that duty which distinguishes the priest from the layman t and how far extends that duty? Wherever there needs a voice to speak the Word; not in the pulpit only, but at the hearth, by the sick bed; //z^r^ should be the Pastor! No—I cannot, I ought not, I dare not! Incompetent as the laborer, how can I be worthy of the hire?" It took him long to bring out these words; his emotion increased his infirmity. Lady Montfort listened with exquisite respect, visible in her compas- sion, and paused long before she answered.
George Morley was the younger son of a country gentleman, with a good estate settled upon the elder son. George's father had been an intimate friend of his kinsman, the Marquis of Mont- fort (predecessor and grandsire of the present lord); and the Marquis had, as he thought, amply provided for George in un- dertaking to secure to him, when of fitting age, the living of Humberston, the most lucrative preferment in his gift. The living had been held for the last fifteen years by an incumbent, now very old, upon the honorable understanding that it was to be resigned in favor of George should George take orders. The young man from his earliest childhood thus destined to the Church, devoted to the prospect of that profession all his stud- ies, all his thoughts. Not till he was sixteen did his infirmity of speech make itself seriously perceptible; and then elocution masters undertook to cure it—they failed. But George's mind continued in the direction toward which it had been so systemat- ically biassed. Entering Oxford, he became absorbed in its academical shades. Amidst its books he almost forgot the im pediment in his speech. Shy, taciturn, and solitary, he mixed too little with others to have it much brought before his own no- tice. He carried off prizes—he took high honors. On leaving
