feels strongly. I don't blame him. And the sight of me this afternoon
upset him. He has gone out to walk."

"Richard is proud," she answered simply. "He used to say he'd rather
die than take charity--and now he's come to it. And it's--that man, sir,
who's got on his brain, and changed him. He wasn't always like this, but
now he can't seem to think of anything else. He wakes up in the night
. . . . And he used to have such a sweet nature--you wouldn't have
known him . . . and came home so happy in the evenings in Alder
Street, often with a little fruit, or something he'd bought for us, and
romp with Dicky in the yard, and I'd stand and laugh at them. Even after
we'd lost our money, when he was sick that time, he didn't feel this way.
It grew on him when he couldn't get work, and then he began to cut things
out of the papers about Mr. Parr. And I have sometimes thought that
that's kept him from getting work. He talks about it, and people don't
know what to make of him. They don't know how hard he'd try if they'd
give him something.". . . .

"We shall find something," said the rector, striving to throw into his
voice confidence and calm. He did not dare to look at her, but continued
to move the fan.

The child stirred a little. Mrs. Garvin put out her hand.

"Yes, the doctor was here. He was very kind. Oh, sir," she exclaimed,
"I hope you won't think us ungrateful--and that Mr. Bentley won't.
Dr. Jarvis has hopes, sir,--he says--I forget the name he called it, what
Dicky has. It's something uncommon. He says it was--brought on by the
heat, and want of food--good food. And he's coming himself in the
morning to take him out to that hospital beyond the park--in an