“I did talk to your father about it, Fred, but I made little way with him.  He said it was too late.  But you have got over one bridge now:  what are your other difficulties?”

“Merely that I don’t like it.  I don’t like divinity, and preaching, and feeling obliged to look serious.  I like riding across country, and doing as other men do.  I don’t mean that I want to be a bad fellow in any way; but I’ve no taste for the sort of thing people expect of a clergyman.  And yet what else am I to do?  My father can’t spare me any capital, else I might go into farming.  And he has no room for me in his trade.  And of course I can’t begin to study for law or physic now, when my father wants me to earn something.  It’s all very well to say I’m wrong to go into the Church; but those who say so might as well tell me to go into the backwoods.”

Fred’s voice had taken a tone of grumbling remonstrance, and Mr. Farebrother might have been inclined to smile if his mind had not been too busy in imagining more than Fred told him.

“Have you any difficulties about doctrines—­about the Articles?” he said, trying hard to think of the question simply for Fred’s sake.

“No; I suppose the Articles are right.  I am not prepared with any arguments to disprove them, and much better, cleverer fellows than I am go in for them entirely.  I think it would be rather ridiculous in me to urge scruples of that sort, as if I were a judge,” said Fred, quite simply.

“I suppose, then, it has occurred to you that you might be a fair parish priest without being much of a divine?”

“Of course, if I am obliged to be a clergyman, I shall try and do my duty, though I mayn’t like it.  Do you think any body ought to blame me?”

“For going into the Church under the circumstances?  That depends on your conscience, Fred—­how far you have counted the cost, and seen what your position will require of you.  I can only tell you about myself, that I have always been too lax, and have been uneasy in consequence.”

“But there is another hindrance,” said Fred, coloring.  “I did not tell you before, though perhaps I may have said things that made you guess it.  There is somebody I am very fond of:  I have loved her ever since we were children.”

“Miss Garth, I suppose?” said the Vicar, examining some labels very closely.

“Yes.  I shouldn’t mind anything if she would have me.  And I know I could be a good fellow then.”

“And you think she returns the feeling?”

“She never will say so; and a good while ago she made me promise not to speak to her about it again.  And she has set her mind especially against my being a clergyman; I know that.  But I can’t give her up.  I do think she cares about me.  I saw Mrs. Garth last night, and she said that Mary was staying at Lowick Rectory with Miss Farebrother.”

“Yes, she is very kindly helping my sister.  Do you wish to go there?”