“But, madam, I think of something higher than any earthly dignities.”

My lady coloured at the mistake she had made; for she herself was truly pious.  Yet when she resumed the subject, it seemed to me as if her tone was a little sharper than before.

“Such want of reverence is, I should say, the clergyman’s fault.  You must excuse me, Mr. Gray, if I speak plainly.”

“My Lady, I want plain-speaking.  I myself am not accustomed to those ceremonies and forms which are, I suppose, the etiquette in your ladyship’s rank of life, and which seem to hedge you in from any power of mine to touch you.  Among those with whom I have passed my life hitherto, it has been the custom to speak plainly out what we have felt earnestly.  So, instead of needing any apology from your ladyship for straightforward speaking, I will meet what you say at once, and admit that it is the clergyman’s fault, in a great measure, when the children of his parish swear, and curse, and are brutal, and ignorant of all saving grace; nay, some of them of the very name of God.  And because this guilt of mine, as the clergyman of this parish, lies heavy on my soul, and every day leads but from bad to worse, till I am utterly bewildered how to do good to children who escape from me as it I were a monster, and who are growing up to be men fit for and capable of any crime, but those requiring wit or sense, I come to you, who seem to me all-powerful, as far as material power goes—­for your ladyship only knows the surface of things, and barely that, that pass in your village—­to help me with advice, and such outward help as you can give.”

Mr. Gray had stood up and sat down once or twice while he had been speaking, in an agitated, nervous kind of way, and now he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, after which he trembled all over.

My lady rang for a glass of water, and looked much distressed.

“Mr. Gray,” said she, “I am sure you are not well; and that makes you exaggerate childish faults into positive evils.  It is always the case with us when we are not strong in health.  I hear of your exerting yourself in every direction:  you overwork yourself, and the consequence is, that you imagine us all worse people than we are.”

And my lady smiled very kindly and pleasantly at him, as he sat, a little panting, a little flushed, trying to recover his breath.  I am sure that now they were brought face to face, she had quite forgotten all the offence she had taken at his doings when she heard of them from others; and, indeed, it was enough to soften any one’s heart to see that young, almost boyish face, looking in such anxiety and distress.

“Oh, my lady, what shall I do?” he asked, as soon as he could recover breath, and with such an air of humility, that I am sure no one who had seen it could have ever thought him conceited again.  “The evil of this world is too strong for me.  I can do so little.  It is all in vain.  It was only to-day—­” and again the cough and agitation returned.