So he termed it:
but, after all, it was only like asking advice of a good man, because
he did not feel himself quite good enough to advise himself.
The curate was preparing to sally forth, after his frugal dinner.
The morning he spent at the schools, or in parish secularities; the
afternoon, till dusk, was devoted to visiting the poor; the night, not
to sleep, but to reading and sermon writing. Thus, by sitting up till
two in the morning, and rising again at six for his private devotions,
before walking a mile and a half up to church for the morning service,
Frank Headley burnt the candle of life at both ends very effectually,
and showed that he did so by his pale cheeks and red eyes.
"Ah!" said Tom, as he entered. "As usual: poor Nature is being robbed
and murdered by rich Grace."
"What do you mean now?" asked Frank, smiling, for he had become
accustomed enough to Tom's quaint parables, though he had to scold him
often enough for their irreverence.
"Nature says, 'after dinner sit awhile;' and even the dumb animals
hear her voice, and lie by for a siesta when their stomachs are full.
Grace says, 'Jump up and rush out the moment you have swallowed your
food; and if you get an indigestion, abuse poor Nature for it; and lay
the blame on Adam's fall.'"
"You are irreverent, my good sir, as usual; but you are unjust also
this time."
"How then?"
"Unjust to Grace, as you phrase it," answered Frank, with a quaint sad
smile.
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