"Well, go on."

"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am the
most reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will be
thankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him--in fact, order him to
go--requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years of
age but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived a
childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of his
brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane
and killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fell
into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of
nurses in a farmer's family--a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed at
his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He was
advised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and my
friend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I need
not say more. He is well worth saving--one of God's best--with too
exacting a conscience--learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a
gentleman."

"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless,
but I sent him a cheque, of course."

"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous
health. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? I
did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."

"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August--he called it
his holiday. My God, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be a
relief."