To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the grat.i.tude which she felt to G.o.d. For a moment the spiritual life that was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a deeper, truer, more lasting friendship had been laid--a friendship that might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her road to Heaven.

Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care.

He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the sick, or the unhappy.

It was of May and her needs that his heart was full as he turned from the drive into the road, but as he did so he stumbled against a man's figure propped against the gate-post. The man lurched heavily forward, and would have fallen had not Mr. Curzon caught him in his arms, peering at the same time into his face to see who it might be.

"Tom! Tom Burney! Poor lad," he exclaimed, with a heavy sigh, for the mere touch of the inert body showed that Tom was not overcome by illness but by drink.

"Tom!" said the rector, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders, "rouse yourself, and get home to bed. To-morrow we will talk this over, but you are in no fit state to listen to-night."

The familiar voice roused the muddled brain to some sense of shame, and instinctively Tom's hand was raised to his cap.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I won't go home; same roof shan't cover that beast Dixon and me!"

The words reminded Mr. Curzon that Dixon, Burney, and several other men employed at the Court were lodged in rooms over the coach-house and stables; evidently Tom and Dixon had quarrelled.

"That's sheer nonsense!" he answered sharply. "I'm not going to leave you out here all night, for the sake of your own character. If you won't go without me, I shall take you."

Tom made some show of sullen resistance, but a sober man always has the advantage over a tipsy one; and Mr. Curzon was physically so strong that, drunk as Tom was, he knew he could enforce obedience. Once more, therefore, the rector had to retrace his steps, and half supported, half led, he presently landed Tom Burney in the stable-yard of the Court. A light burning in one of the upper windows showed him that somebody was still awake, and a whistle readily attracted the attention of the occupant. The window was thrown wide and a head thrust out into the night.

"So it's you, is it?" said a voice, that the rector recognized as Dixon's. "It would serve you right to keep you out there all night."

"You hound! you mean hound!" hiccoughed Tom, trying to wrest himself from the strong restraining hand laid upon his collar. "If only I can get at you, I'll----"

The threat was nipped in the bud by the rector. "Is that you, Dixon?"

he asked, in a low, authoritative tones. "Just come down and open the door, please. I found Burney like this, and brought him home; and keep out of sight, will you? I've no intention of being landed in a quarrel."

There was a smothered exclamation of surprise, the window was closed, and, in another moment, the lower door was thrown wide to admit the rector and his charge. By a rapid signal Mr. Curzon directed Dixon to conceal himself in an angle of the staircase, whilst he gave Tom a helping hand up the staircase to the room which Dixon indicated with a nod. Once safely inside, he placed him on the bed and came away, closing the door behind him.

"He won't come out again to-night, I think," he said to Dixon, who followed him to the door.

"Oh no, sir; I'll see to that," replied the man, with a rather unpleasant smile. "I'll turn the key on him, and unlock the door again before he wakes in the morning. I'm sorry you've had all this trouble.

I tried my best to get him to come along quietly with me, but I had to leave him to himself at last; he was so desperate quarrelsome. He's a quick temper at any time, and he's just mad when he's drunk."

"Which has not been very often, I think," interposed the rector. "But in the last few months, I fear he has fallen into bad company. Good night, Dixon."

"We shan't hear the end of this in a hurry. What business has he prowling about the place at this time of night, I should like to know?"

grumbled Dixon aloud, as he closed the door. "Bad company, indeed!

He'll see for himself that I'm not drunk, whatever that fool Tom may be."

Meanwhile the rector pursued his way home in less joyful mood than before he had stumbled across poor Tom Burney; he was sorely troubled about him as, for a long time, he had been one of the most promising young fellows in the place. He let himself quietly into the rectory, shading the light with his hand as he pa.s.sed the door of Kitty's room; but a half-stifled cry of "Daddy!" arrested his steps. He pushed open the door and entered, crossing with swift, light tread to her bedside.

The frightened look in the child's eyes died away as she looked into the smiling face.

"What does my little Kitty mean by lying awake to this hour?"

"I've been frightened, daddy. I lay awake on purpose, at first, because you promised to come and kiss me when you came home after the meeting."

"Oh, I shan't promise that any more if it keeps you awake. Well!"

"And then I heard Mr. Paul's voice down in the hall, and I thought he said something about fire. But Nurse said I was silly, and must go to sleep; but I couldn't till I knew you were safe."

"What from, little one?"

"The fire," said Kitty, with a suppressed sob. "I thought you might be burned, and n.o.body would tell me."

"Well, that was very silly, certainly," said her father, with a little laugh that had a singularly rea.s.suring effect upon Kitty.

"And I tried to think of the three men with long names that the fire did not hurt; but it did not do me a bit of good, daddy."

"Because you forgot about the fourth one who stood by them, even in the fire, whose form was like the Son of G.o.d," said the rector, gently.

"And He was close by you, Kitty, although you were so frightened--by you, and me too. There! think of that and go to sleep now."

But though Mr. Curzon spoke so cheerfully, there were tears in his eyes as he kissed his little daughter and tucked her into bed with strong, gentle hands.

"Poor little soul! She's bound to suffer, with her crippled body and over-sensitive brain," he thought.

The next morning at breakfast he told Kitty the story of the previous evening, quite simply, without any terrifying details.

"I should think Mr. Paul is very brave--almost as brave as you are, daddy," said Kitty, whose terror seemed to have vanished into thin air with the light of day.

"Much braver, I expect," agreed her father, good-humouredly. "But I wonder why you think so!"

"Oh, Sally has told me lots of things. How he killed a mad dog, and nursed a man with smallpox, and knocked down a costermonger for kicking his pony. That was brave, wasn't it?" said Kitty, who clearly regarded the last item as the crowning act of bravery.

"Well, it was speedy punishment, certainly," answered her father, laughing. "But since you admire bravery so much, you'll have to learn a little more about it yourself; and not lie awake every time I'm kept out late at night. A clergyman's work is like a doctor's--never done, you know."

The word doctor gave Kitty an opportunity of rapidly changing the subject.

"What's a stroke, father? What's good for it?"

"A 'stroke' generally means paralysis, in some form or other, which affects people's limbs--often making them useless."

"Like my legs?" asked Kitty, quickly.

Her father winced palpably. "Not just like that, darling; I wonder what you are thinking of?"

"Mr. Allison's mother. She's very old and very deaf; and now she's had a stroke. I heard some one tell Nurse so; and, of course, I must go and ask about her when I go out; but I can't tell what to take her."

"I should think beef-tea will be the kind of thing she needs. Nurse can say we will make her some if you like," said the rector, who always humoured Kitty's fancy for taking sick people especially under her wing.

The day was a full one, and it was late in the afternoon before he found himself rapping at the door of the house which adjoined the forge.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Allison, in answer to his inquiry about her mother-in-law; "she's a bit tired to-day, though going on as well as we could hope. She's had a visitor this afternoon," with a glance round at the chimney-corner from which Sally Lessing's tall, girlish figure emerged rather shyly; "and if you did not mind looking in rather earlier to-morrow she'd be ready to see you."

"Very good," said the rector. "If you'll name the time, I'll be here.

Miss Lessing, our way home lies in the same direction. Shall we walk together?"

No excuse presented itself for refusing Mr. Curzon's offer, though a _tete-a-tete_ with the rector was not much to her taste--especially as her brother was a little sore about his last night's defeat.