Well, what is it, my boy?"
"I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is very
bad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from her
sisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say when I
asked him."
The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at the
Reverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand each
other. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was not
peculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his
"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for this
sudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a still
greater comfort to share our torments.
"Walk on with me, Anthony," he said. "I must hurry, I have every reason
to hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have left the
house, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he cannot prefer
one before the other."
"Yes, yes," said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me at
once."
"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crest
of Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is a
mile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhaps
we shall know.
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