One Sunday evening three weeks after his first official visit he had been by himself to see some of the poor people, and on his return found Susan alone.  He sat down and gave an account of his visits.

“How many ounces of tea and tobacco did you give away, sir?” asked Susan, with an arch smile.

“Four tea, two tobacco,” replied the reverend gentleman.

“I do notice, sir, you never carry gingerbread or the like for the children.”

“No; the young don’t want lollypops, for they have youth.  Old age wants everything, so the old are my children, and I tea and tobacco them.”

After this there was a pause.

“Miss Merton, you have shown me many persons who need consolation, but there is one you say nothing about.”

“Have I, sir?  Who?  Oh, I think I know.  Old Dame Clayton?”

“No, it is a young demoiselle.”

“Then I don’t know who it can be.”

“Guess.”

“No, sir,” said Susan, looking down.

“It is yourself, Miss Merton.”

“Me, sir!  Why, what is the matter with me?”

“That you shall tell me, if you think me worthy of your confidence.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.  I have my little crosses, no doubt, like all the world; but I have health and strength.  I have my father.”

“My child, you are in trouble.  You were crying when I came in.

“Indeed I was not, sir!—­how did you know I was crying?”

“When I came in you turned your back to me, instead of facing me, which is more natural when any one enters a room; and soon after you made an excuse for leaving the room, and when you came back there was a drop of water in your right eyelash.”

“It need not have been a tear, sir!”

“It was not; it was water.  You had been removing the traces of tears.”

“Girls are mostly always crying, sir; often they don’t know for why, but they don’t care to have it noticed always.”

“Nor would it be polite or generous; but this of yours is a deep grief, and alarms me for you.  Shall I tell you how I know?  You often yawn and often sigh; when these two things come together at your age they are signs of a heavy grief; then it comes out that you have lost your relish for things that once pleased you.  The first day I came here you told me your garden had been neglected of late, and you blushed in saying so.  Old Giles and others asked you before me why you had given up visiting them; you colored and looked down.  I could almost have told them, but that would have made you uncomfortable.  You are in grief, and no common grief.”

“Nothing worth speaking to you about, sir; nothing I will ever complain of to any one.”

“There I think you are wrong; religion has consoled many griefs; great griefs admit of no other consolation.  The sweetest exercise of my office is to comfort the heavy hearted.  Your heart is heavy, my poor lamb—­tell me—­what is it?”