Yet I hate answering advertisements, or advertising.

If my aunt's friends would only interest themselves in procuring me a London curacy, I think I should like to work there.

That would be labouring in the vineyard, with a positive certainty of reaping some of the fruits.' The soliloquy was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Prothero, dressed for her walk.
'Mother, you ought not to let Miss Gwynne stay.' 'I! my dear Rowland! Do you think she would mind what I say to her ?' Miss Gwynne entered.
'I have sent off the servant, and now let me go to the girl.' This was said with the decision of an empress, and with equal grandeur and dignity was the bow made with which she honoured Rowland as she made her exit, followed meekly by Mrs Prothero.
A short time afterwards she was alone by the bedside of the sick girl.
Every comfort had been provided for her by Mrs Prothero, and Miss Gwynne had little to do but to administer medicines and nourishment.
'Is there anything I can do for you, my poor girl ?' she said, leaning over her bed.

'Anything you have to say--any letter I can write--any--' 'If--you--would--pray--my lady,' was the slow, almost inarticulate reply.
Pray! This was what Miss Gwynne could not do.

'Why,' she asked herself, 'can I not say aloud what I feel at my heart for this unhappy creature?
I never felt so before, and yet I know not how to pray.' She went to the head of the stairs, and called Netta.
'Will you ask your brother whether he will come and read a prayer to the poor girl ?' she said.
A few seconds after there was a knock at the door.