“It is a rare pleasure now-a-days to catch a lady at work” said Wingfold.  “My wife always dusts my study for me.  I told her I would not have it done except she did it—­just to have the pleasure of seeing her at it.  My conviction is, that only a lady can become a thorough servant.”

“Why don’t you have lady-helps then?” said Dorothy.

“Because I don’t know where to find them.  Ladies are scarce; and any thing almost would be better than a houseful of half-ladies.”

“I think I understand,” said Dorothy thoughtfully.

Her father now stated Mr. Wingfold’s proposal—­in the tone of one sorry to be unable to entertain it.

“I see perfectly why you think we could not manage it, papa,” said Dorothy.  “But why should not Miss Meredith lodge with us in the same way as with Mrs. Puckridge?  She could have the drawing-room and my bedroom, and her meals by herself.  Lisbeth is wretched for want of dinners to cook.”

“Miss Meredith would hardly relish the idea of turning you out of your drawing-room,” said Wingfold.

“Tell her it may save us from being turned out of the house.  Tell her she will be a great help to us,” returned Dorothy eagerly.

“My child,” said her father, the tears standing in his eyes, “your reproach sinks into my very soul.”

“My reproach, father!” repeated Dorothy aghast.  “How you do mistake me!  I can’t say with you that the will of God is every thing; but I can say that far less than your will—­your ability—­will always be enough for me.”

“My child,” returned her father, “you go on to rebuke me!  You are immeasurably truer to me than I am to my God.—­Mr. Wingfold, you love the Lord, else I would not confess my sin to you:  of late I have often thought, or at least felt as if He was dealing hardly with me.  Ah, my dear sir! you are a young man:  for the peace of your soul serve God so, that, by the time you are my age, you may be sure of Him.  I try hard to put my trust in Him, but my faith is weak.  It ought by this time to have been strong.  I always want to see the way He is leading me—­to understand something of what He is doing with me or teaching me, before I can accept His will, or get my heart to consent not to complain.  It makes me very unhappy.  I begin to fear that I have never known even the beginning of confidence, and that faith has been with me but a thing of the understanding and the lips.”

He bowed his head on his hands.  Dorothy went up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, looking unspeakably sad.  A sudden impulse moved the curate.

“Let us pray,” he said, rising, and kneeled down.

It was a strange, unlikely thing to do; but he was an unlikely man, and did it.  The others made haste to kneel also.