"It is not time lost, Warrender," said Mr.
Finch, when at last he came down stairs. " I
have been determining my principle, and my
mind is made up."

"Then, Sir, let us be off, or the man will be
dead. What! you cannot come, Sir! Why,
bless my soul!"

"You see my reasons, surely, Warrender."

"Why, yes; such as they are. The thing
that I can't see the reason for, is your being a
clergyman."

While Mr. Finch was giving forth his
amiable and gentlemanly notions of the position
of a clergyman in society, and of filial
consideration, Warrender was twirling his
hat, and fidgetting, as if in haste; and his
summing up was—

"I don't know what your mother herself
might say, Sir, to your consideration for her;
but most likely she has, being a mother,
noticed that saying about a man leaving
father and mother, and houses and lands, for
Christ's sake; and also——But it is no
business of mine to be preaching to the clergyman,
and I have enough to do, elsewhere."

"One thing more, Warrender. I entrust it
to you to let the people know that there will
be no service in church during the infection.
Why, do not you know that, in the time of the
plague, the churches were closed by order,
because it was found that the people gave one
another the disease, by meeting there?"

John had never heard it; and he was sorry
to hear it now. He hastened away to the
Good Lady, to ask her if he must really tell
the afflicted people that all religious comfort
must be withheld from them now, when they
were in the utmost need of it. Meantime,
Mr. Finch was entering at length in his diary,
the history of his conflict of mind, his decision,
and the reasons of it.

Henceforth, Mr. Finch had less time for
his diary, and for clearing up points of ecclesiastical
history. There were so many funerals
that he could never be sure of leisure; nor,
when he had it, was he in a state to use it.
Sometimes he almost doubted whether he
was in his right mind, so overwhelmingly
dreadful to him was the scene around him.
He met Farmer Neale one day. Neale was
at his wit's end what to do about his harvest.
Several of his labourers were dead, and others
were kept aloof by his own servants, who
declared they would all leave him if any person
from Bleaburn was brought among them;
and no labourers from a distance would come
near the place. Farmer Neale saw no other
prospect than of his crops rotting on the
ground.

"You must offer high wages," said Mr.
Finch. " You must be well aware that you
do not generally tempt people into your
service by your rate of wages. You must open
your hand at such a time as this."

Neale was ready enough now to give good
wages; but nobody would reap an acre of
his for love or money. He was told to be
thankful that the fever had spared his house;
but he said it was no use bidding a man be
thankful for anything, while he saw his crops
perishing on the ground.

Next, Mr. Finch saw, in his afternoon ride,
a waggon-load of coffins arrive at the brow
from O——. He saw them sent down, one by
one, on men's shoulders, to be ranged in the
carpenter's yard. The carpenter could not
work fast enough; and his stock of wood was
so nearly exhausted that there had been
complaints, within the last few days, that the
coffins would not bear the least shock, but
fell to pieces when the grave was opened for
the next. So an order was sent to O—- for
coffins of various sizes; and now they were
carried down the road, and up the street,
before the eyes of some who were to inhabit
one or another of them. The doctor, hurrying
from house to house, had hardly a moment to
spare, and no comfort to give. He did not
see what there was to prevent the whole
population from being swept away. He was
himself almost worn out; and just at such a
moment, his surgery boy had disappeared.
He had no one that he could depend on to
help him in making up the medicines, or even
to deliver them. The fact was, he said in
private, the place was a pest-house; and,
except to Miss Pickard, he did not know
where to look for any aid or any hope whatever.
It would not do to say so to the people;
but, frankly speaking, this was what he felt.
When the pastor's heart was thus sunk very
low, he thought he would just pass the Plough
and Harrow, and see who was there. If
there were any cheerful people in Bleaburn,
that was where they would be found. At the
Plough and Harrow, the floor was swept and
the table was clean; and the chimney was
prettily dressed with green boughs; but
there were only two customers there; and
they were smoking their pipes in silence.
The landlord said the scores were run up so
high, he could not give more credit till better
days. The people wanted their draught of
comfort badly enough, and he had given it as
long as he could; but he must stop
somewhere: and if the baker had to stop scores
(as he knew he had) the publican had little
chance of getting his own. At such a time,
however, he knew men ought to be liberal;
so he went on serving purl and bitters at five
in the morning. The men said it strengthened
their stomachs against the fever before they
went to work (such of them as could work)
and God forbid he should refuse them that!
But he knew the half of those few that came
at five in the morning would never be able to
pay their score. Yet did the publican, amidst
all these losses, invite the pastor to sit down
and have a cheerful glass; and the pastor
did not refuse. There was too little
cheerfulness to be had at present to justify him
in declining any offer of it. So he let the
landlord mix his glass for him, and mix it
strong.