“You are very kind, sir,” I replied—­“kinder than I deserve.”

“That is a matter of opinion, Stukely.  I do not think so.  You have served me faithfully and well.  I consult my own interest in rewarding you and taking care of yours.”

“Yes, sir—­but”—­

“Well, never mind now.  We will not argue on whose side the obligation lies.  It is perhaps well that we should both of us think as we do.  It is likely that we shall both perform our duty more strictly if we strike the balance against ourselves.  Go and refresh yourself.  You look tired and worn.  Get a glass of wine, and cheer up.  Have you seen Miss Fairman?”

“It is concerning her, sir,” I answered, trembling in every joint, “that I desire particularly to speak to you.”

“Good heaven!” exclaimed the incumbent, starting from his chair, “what do you mean?  What is the matter?  What has happened?  Why do you tremble, Stukely, and look so ghastly pale?  What has happened since the morning?  What ails her?  Go on.  Speak.  Tell me at once.  My poor child—­what of her?”

“Calm yourself, I implore you, sir.  Miss Fairman is quite well.  Nothing has happened.  Do not distress yourself.  I have done very wrong to speak so indiscreetly.  Pardon me, sir.  I should have known better.  She is well.”

Mr. Fairman paced the room in perturbation, and held his hand upon his heart to allay its heavy throbs.

“This is very wrong,” he said—­“very impious.  I have thought of nothing else this day—­and this is the consequence.  I have dwelt upon the probability of calamity, until I have persuaded myself of its actual presence—­looked for woe, until I have created it.  This is not the patience and resignation which I teach; for shame, for shame!—­go to thy closet, worm—­repent and pray.”

Mr. Fairman resumed his seat, and hid his face for a time in his hands.  At length he spoke again.

“Proceed, Stukely.  I am calm now.  The thoughts and fears in which it was most sinfull to indulge, and which accumulated in this most anxious breast, are dissipated.  What would you say?  I can listen as I ought.”

“I am glad, sir, that the boys revisit their homes on Monday, and that a month, at least, will elapse before their return to you.  In that interval, you will have an opportunity of providing them with a teacher worthier your regard and confidence; and, if I leave you at once, you will not be put to inconvenience.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I must resign my office, sir,” I said with trepidation.

“Resign?  Wherefore?  What have I said or done?”

“Let me beg your attention, sir, whilst I attempt to explain my motives, and to do justice to myself and you.  I mentioned the name of Miss Fairman.”

“You did.  Ha!  Go on, sir.”

“You cannot blame me, Mr. Fairman, if I tell you that, in common with every one whose happiness it is to be acquainted with that lady, I have not been insensible to the qualities which render her so worthy of your love, so deserving the esteem”—­I stopped.