The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Village by the River, by H. Louisa Bedford

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Title: The Village by the River

Author: H. Louisa Bedford

Release Date: January 16, 2007 [EBook #20381]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: Paul . . . was holding it closely
upon the burning skirt.]






THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER.


by

H. LOUISA BEDFORD,



AUTHOR OF

"MRS. MERRIMAN'S GODCHILD," "RALPH RODNEY'S MOTHER,"

"MISS CHILCOTT'S LEGACY," ETC., ETC.




ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY.



PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE

GENERAL LITERATURE COMMITTEE.




LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.;

43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.

BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.

NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

    I.  WHAT THE VILLAGERS SAID
   II.  AN UNLOOKED-FOR INHERITANCE
  III.  FIRST IMPRESSIONS
   IV.  OPPOSING VIEWS
    V.  A QUESTION OF EDUCATION
   VI.  A VOTE OF CONFIDENCE
  VII.  A MOMENTOUS DECISION
 VIII.  AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND
   IX.  A CRISIS IN A LIFE
    X.  RIVAL SUITORS
   XI.  A FRIEND IN NEED
  XII.  KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE
 XIII.  THE CALL OF GOD
  XIV.  A CHANGE OF MIND




ILLUSTRATIONS


Paul . . . was holding it closely
upon the burning skirt. . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"I've come after some roses."

Before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his collar.




THE VILLAGE BY THE RIVER.


CHAPTER I.

WHAT THE VILLAGERS SAID.

"Well, it were the grandest funeral as ever I set eyes on," said
Allison, the blacksmith, folding his brawny arms under his leather
apron, and leaning his shoulders against the open door of the smithy in
an attitude of leisurely ease.

The group, gathered round him on their way home from work, gave an
assenting nod and waited for more.

For convenience Allison shifted his pipe more to the corner of his
mouth, and proceeded--

"Not one of yer new-fangled ones, with a glass hearse for all the world
like a big window-box, and a sight of white flowers like a wedding.
Everything was as black as it should be; I never see'd finer horses, in
my life, with manes and tails reachin' a'most to the ground, and a
shinin' black hearse with a score of plumes on the top, and half a
dozen men with silk hatbands walking alongside it, right away from the
station to the churchyard yonder."  And Allison threw a backward glance
over the billowy golden cornfields, which separated the village from
the church by a quarter of a mile, where the grand tower reared its
head as if keeping watch over the village like a lofty sentinel.

"There were lots of follerers, I expect?" suggested Macdonald, gently.
He was a Scotchman, and worked on the line, and he shifted his bag of
tools from his shoulder to the ground as he spoke.  "A gentleman like
him would leave a-many to miss him."

Allison stared across at the river which ran swiftly by on the opposite
side of the road.  The long village of Rudham skirted its banks
irregularly for a mile or more.  The blacksmith had plenty of news to
communicate, but he was not to be hurried in the relating of it.

"I'm tryin' to recolleck," he said, knitting his brows, "but I can't
mind more than two principal mourners.  And the undertaker, when he
stopped to water his horses at the inn, told Mrs. Lake as they was the
doctor and the lawyer; but, relations or no, they did it wonderful
well!  Stood with their hats off all in the burnin' sun, and went back
to look at the grave when the funeral was over."

"The household servants was there--leastways the butler and footman,"
said Tom Burney, a dark-eyed, gipsy-looking young man, who was one of
the under-gardeners at the big house on the hill, "but not him as is
coming after."

"The question is who is a-comin' after?" said Allison, in a tone of
sarcastic argument.  "Maybe you'll tell us, as you seem to know such a
lot about it?"

Burney coloured under his dark skin, and gave an uneasy little laugh.

"I know what I've heard, no more nor less," he said; "but it comes
first-hand from the butler of him who's gone."

Allison gave an incredulous sniff; he was not used to playing second
fiddle, and the heads of his listeners had turned to a man in the
direction of the last speaker.

"He hadn't no near relation, not bein' a married man," went on Burney,
enjoying his advantage; "and Mr. Smith--that's the butler--came and
walked round the garden until it was time for his train to go back to
London."

"He don't pretend as the property's left to him, I suppose?" broke in
Allison, jocosely.

Burney turned his shoulder slightly towards the speaker, and went on,
regardless of the interruption--

"Mr. Smith says as the house up there, and all the property, goes to a
young fellow not more than thirty, of the same name as the old squire;
some third cousin or other."

"Hearsay! just hearsay!" ejaculated Allison, contemptuously.  "Who's
seen him, I should like to know?  Seein's believin', they say."

"Mr. Smith has," said Burney, a ring of triumph in his voice.  "He were
there when old Mr. Lessing died."

There was silence for a moment.  The evidence seemed conclusive, and
Allison's discomfiture complete; but, as the forge was the place where
the village gossips gathered every day, it was felt to be wise to keep
on good terms with the owner.

"Seems as if it might be true," said Macdonald, casting a timid glance
at the blacksmith.

"If it is, why wern't he here, to-day, then?" asked Allison, gruffly.

"Not knowin', can't say," Burney answered with a laugh.

"Maybe he'll be comin' to live here," said another.

"He can't!  I can tell you that much; there ain't a house he could live
in," asserted Allison.  "His own place is let, you see, to the
Websters--whom Burney there works for,--and he can't turn 'em out, as
they have it on lease; and a good thing too.  We don't want no resident
squire ridin' round and pryin' into everything.  The old one kept
hisself to hisself, and, as long as the rents was paid regular, he
didn't trouble much about us; and there was always a pound for the
widows every Christmas.  Trust me, it's better to have your landlord
livin' in London, and not looking about the place more than once a
year.  Did Mr. Smith say what the young one looked like, Burney?"

The question was asked a little reluctantly.

"No; but he thinks he's a bit queer in his notions.  He asked him
whether he'd be likely to want his services; and Mr. Lessing laughed
quite loud, and said, one nice old woman to cook and do for him was all
he should require now, or at any time in his life.  Mr. Smith ain't
sure but what he's a Socialist."

"I don't rightly know the meaning of it?" said Macdonald,
instinctively, turning to the blacksmith for an explanation.

"It may be a good thing, or it mayn't," declared Allison.  "I take it
that a Socialist means one as would take from those as has plenty and
give to those who has nothing.  We're born ekal into the world, and
they'd keep us ekal, as far as might be.  But it'd take a deal of
workin' out, more than you'd think, lookin' at it first; but I'm not
goin' to say that it wouldn't be handy to have a Socialist squire.  He
might divide his land ekal among us, and there'd be no more rent to pay
for any of us.  There now!"

A general murmur of approval ran round his audience, except with old
Macdonald, who gave a quaint smile.

"But it strikes me that such of us as have saved a tidy bit would have
to hand it out to be divided equal too.  It would not be fair as the
Squire should do it all; it would run through, you see."

"Well, I've not saved a brass farthing, so I should come in for a lot;
and I'd settle down and marry to-morrow!" cried Burney, gaily.  "But,
you may depend on it, whoever's got the place will stick to it.  I must
be getting on to the station.  Our people are coming back from abroad
this evening, and I'm to be there to help hoist up the luggage.  It
takes a carriage and pair to carry up the ladies, and an extra cart for
luggage."

"It's not the luggage you're going to meet, I'll bet; it's the lady's
maid," said a young fellow, who had not spoken before.  "If you married
next week we all know well enough whom you'd take for a wife;" and Tom
moved off amid a shout of laughter.

It was an open secret that Tom was head-over-ears in love with pretty
Rose Lancaster, the somewhat flighty maid of Miss Webster, who, with
her mother, was returning to the Court that evening.  Absence had made
his heart grow fonder, and it was beating much faster than usual as he
stood on the station platform awaiting the arrival of the train, and,
when it ran in with much splutter and fuss, not even by a turn of her
head did Miss Rose show herself aware of Tom's presence.  Instead, she
was looking after her ladies, lifting out their various belongings--not
a few in number--and ordering round the porters with a pretty pertness
as she counted out the boxes from the van.  It was only when she found
her own box missing that she turned appealingly to Tom.

"Run, there's a good boy, quick to the other van!" she said,
acknowledging him with a nod.  "It must have got in there, and the
train will be off in another moment."

Tom ran as requested, pantingly rescued the box, and came back smiling
to tell her of his successful search.

"That's right," said Rose, graciously.  "Now you can help me on to the
box-seat of the carriage, if you like.  I'm going to sit beside Mr.
Dixon."

Dixon was the coachman, and a formidable rival in Tom's eyes.

"I thought, perhaps, as you'd come along of me.  I'm drivin' the cart
back for Berry, as he had a message in the village.  I've not seen you
for such a time, Rose."

"Come with you!" said Rose, with a toss of her head.  "The ladies would
not like it; besides, we shall meet sure enough some day soon.  I
mustn't wait a minute longer.  You need not help me unless you like."

But poor Tom, under the pretext of making some inquiry about the
luggage, managed to be near so as to hand up Rose to her seat by the
coachman, who appeared far more absorbed in the management of his
horses than in the young woman who sat by him, upon whom he did not
bestow even a glance, preserving a perfectly imperturbable countenance.

"He's pretending! just pretending--the scamp!" said Tom, under his
breath, turning back to his horse and cart.

A strange man stood near stroking the animal's head and keeping a light
hand on its bridle.  He wore a loosely fitting brown suit, and the hand
that caressed the horse was almost as brown as his clothes.  His head
was closely cropped and his face clean-shaven, showing the clear-cut,
decided mouth and chin, and the white, even teeth displayed by the
smile with which he greeted Tom.

"You may be glad I was at hand or your cart with its cargo of luggage
would have been upset in the road," he said.  "It's not a wise thing to
leave a creature like this standing alone when a train is starting off."

A quick retort was on the tip of Tom's tongue; he had no fancy for
being called to account by a perfect stranger, but, although the words
sounded authoritative, the tone was good-humoured.

"Thank you, I only left him for a moment; he stands quiet enough as a
rule," he said, taking the bridle into his hand.

The stranger picked up the small portmanteau he had set down in the
road, and prepared to walk off, then turned half-hesitatingly back to
Tom.

"Can you tell me where I can get a night or two's lodging?  It does not
much matter where it is as long as it is clean and quiet."

Tom took off his cap and rubbed his head thoughtfully.

"Mrs. Lake's a wonderful good sort of woman."

"And who may Mrs. Lake be?" inquired the stranger, pleasantly.

"She keeps the Blue Dragon, but I couldn't say as it's exactly quiet of
a Saturday night.  She don't allow no swearin' on her premises, but
some of the fellers gets a bit rowdy before they go home."

"Very possibly," replied his companion, dryly.  "I don't think the Blue
Dragon would suit me; but surely there is some cottager with a spare
bed and sitting-room, who might be glad of a quiet, respectable lodger
for a bit?"

Tom threw a searching glance at the speaker; he was not quite sure
that, notwithstanding his gentle manner of talking, he was to be
altogether trusted.

"If you'd step up beside me I'll drive you to the forge," he said,
willing to shelve his responsibility of recommendation.  "It's close
here, and Allison will help you if no one else can.  He knows every
one's business."

"Just the sort of man I want," said Tom's new acquaintance, climbing
into the cart and seating himself on the cushion that had been intended
for Rose.  His alert grey eyes took in his new surroundings at a glance.

No one could call Rudham a pretty village: it was too straggling, too
bare of trees, which had been planted sparsely and attained no
luxuriance of growth; but it was not wholly unattractive this evening,
with the setting sun turning to gold the varying bends of the river
which ran through the valley, and the cottages and farmhouses dotted
here and there with a not unpleasing irregularity, and in the distance
a softly rising upland turning from blue to purple in the evening light.

"Yonder's the Court, where my people live," said Tom, jerking his whip
to a big house more than a mile away that peeped out from among the
trees.  "It belonged to the old squire who was buried to-day, you know."

"Ah!" ejaculated his listener, not greatly interested, apparently, in
the information.

"It's a wonderful fine place, and they say as he who's to have it won't
hold no store by it.  Pity, ain't it?"

Tom's companion broke into rather a disconcerting laugh.

"Look here, my lad, by the time you're thirty you won't give credit to
every bit of gossip that comes to your ears; you'll wait to know that
it's true before you pass it on, at any rate.  This will be the forge
you spoke of, and there's the owner, sure enough, standing at the door.
Thank you for the lift, and here's a shilling for your trouble."

But Tom thrust away the proffered tip with a shake of his head.

"No, thank you; you kept the horse safe at the station."

"So, on the principle that one good turn deserves another, you'll give
me a lift for nothing.  All right and thank you," said the man,
dismounting and lifting out his portmanteau.  "Good night."

"Good night," said Tom, with an answering nod.  "I wonder what his
business is?" he thought, as he pursued his way.  "Shouldn't be
surprised if he was the engineer who's to see to the laying down of the
new line; he's that quick, smart way with him as if he'd been about a
lot and knew a thing or two."

"Lodgings!" echoed Allison, slowly, as the stranger reiterated his
request.  "It's not a thing we are often asked for in Rudham.  I'd make
no objection to taking you in myself, but Mrs. Allison's not partial to
strangers."

"I should be sorry to inconvenience Mrs. Allison; is there no one else
you can think of?"

"Mrs. Pink 'ud do it; but she's a baby who's teething, and fretful o'
nights."

"And that would not suit me!" said the newcomer, with decision.

"I have it!" cried Allison, bringing down his big hand with a
resounding slap upon his knee.  "Mrs. Macdonald's the body for you!
There's not a better woman in Rudham, and I know 'em pretty well in
these parts.  Her husband's only just gone up street; he were talkin'
here not five minutes ago.  There's only their two selves, and the
cottage one of the best in the place."

"It sounds as if it would suit me down to the ground.  And if Mrs.
Macdonald could give me shelter, even for a few nights, it would give
me time to look about me."

"Thinkin' of settlin' in these parts?" inquired Allison.  "There's no
house as I knows on vacant."

"I've no settled plans at present," answered the stranger.  "If you'll
kindly direct me to Mrs. Macdonald's, I'll go and try my fate."

"Eighth house from here, set back a bit from the road, with a little
orchard behind it; and you can say as I sent you," said Allison,
feeling his name a good enough recommendation for any stranger.

The door of the eighth house set back a little from the road was
partially open as the new arrival made his way up the box-bordered
path, with beds on either side of it gay with flowers; and before he
could knock a neatly dressed middle-aged woman threw it wide and
surveyed him from head to foot.

"And what may you be wanting, sir?" she asked, quite civilly.

"A lodging for a night or two.  And Mr. Allison at the forge seemed to
think you might be inclined to take me in."

"I'm not sure as my John will wish it.  But if you'll step inside I'll
ask him," replied Mrs. Macdonald, motioning him to a chair.

"Unless they turn me out by force, I shall stay," he said, looking
round him with a pleased smile.

It was not his fault, but "my John's" deafness, that caused him to hear
himself described as a "very decent man, who spoke as civil as a
gentleman; and it was awkward to find yourself in a strange place on a
Saturday night with nobody ready to put themselves about a bit to take
you in."

"John will yield in the long run," sighed the unwilling listener.
"Mrs. MacD. rules the roost, unless I'm greatly mistaken."

Apparently his conjecture was right, for in another minute the woman
reappeared to say that she and her husband were willing to let him have
the front bed and sitting-room if, after due inspection, they proved
good enough for him.

"We're not used to grand folk," she said, a trifle awed by the sight of
the portmanteau.  "I cooked for a plain family before I married my
John, and----"

"Then it's certain that you can cook for me; I'm not nearly so much
trouble as a plain family," said her visitor, laughing.  "I'll carry up
my things if you'll show me the way, for I shall go no further than
this to-night.  I dare say you can give me some tea, and then I'll go
out and order in some food."

"I dare say you eat hearty, sir; or we've some fine new-laid eggs,"
suggested Mrs. Macdonald.

"The very thing.  You can't get such a thing in London; the youngest
new-laid egg is about a month old, I fancy.  Thank you," (with a glance
round the dimity-curtained room, fragrant with lavender); "I shall be
as happy as a king."

When her lodger was safely established at his evening meal, and Mrs.
Macdonald was satisfied that she could provide nothing more for his
comfort, she went upstairs to tidy his room, shaking her head a little
over the various things that littered the floor and table.

"He's not so tidy as my John, but he's not got his years over his
head," she said, as she closed the portmanteau and shoved it towards
the dressing-room table.

As she did so the name on the label caught her eye, she could not help
reading it; and then drew in her breath with a sharp exclamation of
surprise.  The next instant she hurried softly but quickly down the
stairs, took her astonished helpmeet by the arm, and dragged him into
the orchard, closing the kitchen door behind her.

"John!" she said, "who do you think has come to us?  Who is it that has
come quite humble like for shelter under our roof this night?"

In her eagerness to extract an answer she pinched the arm she held a
little.

"It's not a riddle you're asking me?" said John, withdrawing himself a
pace.

"No, no, man!  it's the young squire himself, for sure.  Paul Lessing
is on his portmanter," she said looking round, for fear she should be
overheard by a neighbour.  The news must be digested.




CHAPTER II.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR INHERITANCE.

A week before, Paul Lessing and his only sister Sally had started for a
three week's tour on the continent, with as light-hearted a sense of
enjoyment as any boy or girl home for the summer vacation.  They were
orphans, with only each other to care for; and Paul had not feared to
take up some of their slender capital to enable his sister to complete
her college course at Girton.  If she had to earn her own living, she
should at least have the best education that money could give; and
Sally had made the best use of her opportunity.  Her name was high in
the honour list, and Paul decreed that, before any plans were discussed
for her future, they should dedicate a certain sum to a foreign tour.

"It will be a good investment, Sally.  You are looking pale after all
your work.  We will make no definite plan; it's distance that swallows
up the money, so we'll start off for Brussels, and move on when we feel
inclined, possibly to the Rhine, and so to Heidelberg."  And Sally, in
the joyousness of her mood, felt that all places would be alike
delightful in the company of her brother.

Two days later found the brother and sister seated in the garden of the
_cafe_ that adjoins the park at Brussels.  Even now, at eight o'clock
in the evening, it was exceedingly hot, and the boughs of the trees
overhead, through which here and there a star glimmered, were
absolutely motionless.  The band which played was the best string-band
in Brussels, attracting a great throng of listeners; and every table
around them had its complement of guests; and the civil waiters who
flitted hither and thither had almost more than they could do to keep
the tables properly served.  Paul was smoking and reading the paper,
but Sally needed no better amusement than to watch the various groups
about her, and to listen to the exquisite playing of the band.

"We want something like this in England, Paul," she said, laying a hand
on his arm--"lots of places like this out-of-doors in the fresh air,
under the stars and trees, where people can go and drink their tea or
coffee, and listen to music that must refine them whilst they listen."

Paul laid by his paper and laughed.  "Yes," he said, "and when I get
into Parliament--if ever--I will do my utmost to make some of our
wealthy citizens disgorge a part of their wealth to put places such as
this within the reach of everybody.  I confess there are
difficulties----"

"What?" inquired Sally, with childish impatience.

"Our beastly climate, to begin with," Paul answered with a little
laugh.  "Want of space, and want of trees when you get the space.  Then
look at our population in our big cities.  Brussels is just a
pocket-town, if you come to compare it with London.  Of course the
recreation of the masses is only one of the many vexed questions
concerning them that Government eventually must take in hand.  If you
want people to be moral, you must give them a chance of enjoying
themselves in an innocent fashion."

"Of course, you could do a lot if you once got into Parliament!" cried
Sally, with the enthusiasm of her twenty years.  "When shall you get
in? and where shall you stand for? and may I help in the election?"

Paul laughed louder than before.  "There's a deal to be done before I
can even think of standing for any place.  First, I must accumulate
enough capital to bring me in a small independent income.  You know we
have not much now."

"You can have anything and everything that belongs to me; I mean to
earn my living somehow," declared Sally, sturdily.

"Thank you.  I don't mean to start that way; and money comes in slowly
to a barrister, although I am getting on fairly well.  Then I will
stand for any place that will return me, after learning my honestly
expressed political opinions.  Each man has his pet hobby, and I feel
that mine is the bettering of the condition of the masses."

"That will make you popular," said Sally.

"And I don't care a fig for popularity.  I want to help to leave the
average condition of the people better than it is at present.  The
contrast between the very rich and the very poor of our land is
something too awful to contemplate."

His talk, which he had begun half in play, had ended in deadly earnest;
and Sally laid her hand mischievously over his eyes.

"Then don't contemplate it--at any rate just now, when I am so merry
and happy.  You've not answered my last question.  May I help in your
election?  It would be such fun."

"I think not, Sally," Paul said smiling again.

"Oh, what a mass of inconsistency!--when you were saying only to-day
that you saw no just cause or impediment why women should not do
anything for which they have a special fitness.  Now I feel politics
will be my speciality, and I would not canvass for any one unless I
quite understood their views."

"Well, my Parliamentary career is in the far future," Paul interposed;
"and certainly I should not give my sanction to your undertaking any
work of that kind at present.  You are much too young, and much too----"

"Pretty, were you going to add?" broke in Sally, with a ripple of
laughter.  "I'm afraid not: enthusiastic would be the more likely
adjective for you to use concerning me.  Besides I don't think I am
pretty.  'My dear,' said that candid old Miss Sykes to me the other
day, 'you might have been very good-looking if all your features were
as good as your eyes.'  Why do ladies of a certain age take it for
granted that they can say what they choose to the budding young woman?
It annoys me frightfully.  Oh, Paul!" with a sudden lowering of her
voice, "talking of pretty, there's a perfectly lovely girl who is
seated with her mother at the third table from ours.  Don't turn your
head too quickly or she will think we are talking of her; and then you
can keep your head turned in the direction of the band.  Her profile
comes in between it and you."

Paul did as he was bid.  Sally was right, the girl to whom she directed
his attention was lovely beyond compare; and yet there was something in
her face that failed to satisfy him.  The very perfection, too, of
everything about her, gave him a feeling of unconscious irritation.

"Well?" asked Sally, when he turned back to her.

"She's beautiful, certainly; but I don't like her."

"It's just because you did not discover her first."

Paul did not trouble to answer; there was a general stir amongst the
company.  The concert was drawing to a close, and the burghers of
Brussels began to think of home and bed.  The wives slipped their
knitting into their pocket; the husbands bestowed a passing nod and
guttural good night to each other as they moved away; and the twinkling
lights began to be extinguished one by one.  In the crowd at the
entrance Paul and Sally found themselves close to the girl whom Sally
had so greatly admired.  She was talking in low, clear tones to her
mother.

"Ought not to have come?  What nonsense, mother!  It has been quite an
amusing experience to see the way these people pass their evenings;
they are quite nice and respectable.  I confess now I should be glad to
see our carriage.  I feel I'm getting smoke-dried like bacon--or ham,
is it?"

It was evident that the elder of the two ladies was rather frightened
and losing her head.

"I'll not do this again without a man of our own," she said with
nervous irritability.

Paul stepped forward, raising his hat.  "Is your carriage anywhere
about?  Can I get it for you?"

"Oh, thank you so much.  It's a private one from the Hotel de Flandres,
and I told the man to stop here."

"Unfortunately the police regulations interfere with your orders," Paul
said, with a slight smile.  "He must take his place in the ranks.  I
will soon find it for you if you will stay here."

"Name, Webster," said the older lady.

So Paul, with a nod to Sally to stay where she was, hurried off,
returning in a moment with the carriage.

"Thanks so much," said the girl whom Sally admired, as Paul handed her
in and closed the door behind her.

"I was quite glad of the time to consider her more closely!" cried
Sally, as they drove off.  "I've never seen what I call an absolutely
perfect face before.  I wonder if I shall see her again?"

"For my part I don't wish it," Paul answered carelessly.  "Beautiful
she is; but she bears the knowledge of it about with her like an
overpowering perfume, and is the very impersonation of the insolence of
riches!"

"Why, Paul, you are not often either narrow-minded or unjust."

"How dare she comment upon these Belgians, who nearly all possess a
smattering of English, under their very noses!" continued Paul,
angrily.  "'Quite nice and respectable,' indeed!  As she and her mother
were in a fix I was bound, as a man, to offer my services; but I did it
unwillingly."

Paul's indignation was short-lived, and he and Sally walked along the
streets leisurely, on their way back to their hotel, talking on
indifferent subjects.  They paused in the hall of the hotel, running
their eyes over the letters displayed outside the post-office, to see
if the evening post had brought any for them.  There were none for
Sally; but two or three for Paul, that had been forwarded from his
chambers in London.

"I'll go into the salon and read them, and then we'll go upstairs to
bed.  I feel infected by the early hours of these foreigners," he said,
yawning a little.

Sally turned over the leaves of a paper whilst her brother opened his
letters.  The last of them he read and re-read several times; then rose
and laid his hand on Sally's shoulder.

"I'm awfully sorry, Sally, but I shall have to go back to London by the
first train to-morrow."

The long-drawn "O-o-o-h!" was powerless to express half the
disappointment his sister felt.

"It's business, I suppose: everything nasty is always business," she
said at last.

"Well, no, it's not business; and it certainly is not pleasure.  You
remember I had an old godfather, Major Lessing?  I'm sure he amply
fulfilled his godfatherly duty by the silver milk-jug he gave me at my
baptism--which I've never set eyes on for many a long year, by the
way--and the tips he shoved into the palm of my hand whenever I paid
him a visit on my way from school.  I don't think I've seen him since;
and why, now that he's dying, he has a particular desire for a call, I
can't tell you.  It's inconvenient, to say the least of it."

"_Must_ you go?" asked Sally, despairingly.

"I'm afraid so.  It's the last thing one can do for him, poor old chap!"

"He might have chosen some other time to be ill," said Sally, who, not
knowing the major, was inclined to be heartless.

"Well, yes.  But we won't lose our holiday; we'll come again later,
Sally."

"We shan't!  I'm perfectly certain we shan't!" cried Sally, turning
away her head so that Paul should not see that there were tears in her
eyes.  "It was too delightful a plan to carry out."

The next day found Paul and his sister back in London.  Sally was to go
to an aunt for a few days, until Paul could settle his plans; and when
he had seen her off from the station, he turned his own steps in the
direction of the quiet square where his godfather had spent his
solitary life since the days of his retirement from active service.
His eyes turned instinctively to the windows, to see if the blinds were
drawn down; but the house wore its usual aspect of dignified reserve,
with its slightly opened casements.  The imperturbable butler, who
answered Paul's ring at the bell, seemed at first inclined to question
his right to enter.

"My master is very sadly, sir; he's not fit to see any one."

"But he sent for me," said Paul, quietly.  "Will you let him know, as
soon as possible, that Paul Lessing has come in answer to his letter?"

At the mention of the familiar name Smith's manner altered perceptibly;
he threw open the library door and ushered Paul in.  It was scarcely a
minute before he returned.

"My master is awake and will see you at once, sir."

"Has he been long ill?" Paul asked.

"It's been coming on gradual for a year or more, sir.  Creeping
paralysis is what the doctors call it.  He's no use left in his legs,
and very little in his arms or hands; but his brain seems as active as
ever.  He took a turn for the worse last week, and the end, they think,
may come at any time."

"Thank you; I'll go upstairs now."

He entered the sick-room so quietly that the nurse, who sat by the
bedside, did not hear him; but the grey head on the pillow turned
quickly, and the dying eyes shone with eager welcome.

"I'm glad you've come; I thought you meant to leave it till too late,"
was the abrupt greeting.

"I was abroad, and did not get your letter at once," Paul said gently.

"And you came back?  That's more than many fellows would have done.
Nurse, draw up those blinds, and leave us, please; there are several
things I have to say.  No, you need not talk about my saving my
strength.  What good will it do?  A few minutes more life, perhaps," he
added testily, as he saw the nurse giving Paul some admonition under
her breath.  "Women are a nuisance, Paul; and at no time do they prove
it more than when you are ill and under their thumb.  There! take a
seat close by me, where I can see you."

"You wanted to see me about something particular, your lawyer told me,"
said Paul, filled with pity at the sight of the perfectly helpless
figure.  "It may be that I can carry out some wish of yours.  I should
be glad to be of service to you."

Major Lessing did not answer for some minutes, and Paul ascribed his
silence to exhaustion.  In reality the keen eyes were scanning Paul's
face critically, as if trying to read his character.

"I wanted to see you; and now you've come I don't know what to make of
you.  It has crossed my mind more than once since I've lain here, that
I've been a rash fool to make a man I know so little of, my heir."

Paul could not repress an exclamation of astonishment; the news gave
him anything but unmixed pleasure.

"It was surely very rash, sir.  I've no possible claim upon you.  I
have scarcely even any connection with you except the name."

"That's it," said the major.  "You have the name, and that must be
carried on and a distant tie of relationship; and there's something
else, Paul.  Years ago I wanted to marry your mother.  You are my
godson; you might have been my real son, you see."

Paul felt a lump in his throat; this love-story of long ago was
pathetic.  His mother had died when he was still quite a child, but she
lived in his memory as beautiful and fascinating.

"She was half Irish," he said.

The major nodded.  "So, partly from sentimental reasons, and partly
because there was no one better, I've left the property at Rudham to
you," he went on with a smile.  "There would have been plenty of money
to have left with it; but I've made some very bad speculations lately,
and lost a great deal.  I took to speculation from sheer want of
amusement.  I was a good billiard player as long as I had the use of my
limbs; but here I've been, literally tied by the legs, for the last two
years.  The only thing properly alive about me was my brain, and
speculation has interested me; but I was badly hit ten days ago.  There
will be some money, but you won't be a rich man."

"I don't care about it," interposed Paul, eagerly.

"Then you ought to; a landlord poorly off is in a bad case in these
days; and I want things kept as they are, Paul.  I've not lived at
Rudham, but I've kept my eye on it all the same; and what you call
progress, and its attendant abominations, has not hurt it much yet.  I
made a mistake when I let the bishop nominate a successor to the living
when old Gregg died three years ago.  Curzon's a go-ahead fellow, from
all that I hear; I don't want a go-ahead squire."

"I'm afraid you've made another mistake, and, if there's time, you had
better undo it," said Paul, gravely.

"Do I look like a man who can re-arrange all his matters?" asked the
Major, irritably.  "After all, what I ask of you is no very hard thing
to grant; simply to accept the good the gods provide, and let well
alone."

"But that for me is an impossible condition," said Paul.  "I cannot let
things alone if I feel that I can better them.  I'm in no way fitted
for a country squire; I've been brought up on different lines from you,
and arrived at very different conclusions.  I am grateful to you for
your thought of me, but I want to live my own life unfettered by any
conditions."

"And this is how you show your readiness to carry out any wish of
mine?" said the major, bitterly.

"I'm sorry; but I promised in the dark, not knowing that my principles
would be involved."

"I'm glad to hear you have any.  May I ask what you call yourself?  A
Lessing who is not a Conservative is not worthy of the name."

"I scarcely know what I am; but my friends call me a Socialist."

"Then in Heaven's name, I've made a bigger blunder than the last!" said
the squire, with an odd thrill in his voice.

"It's not my fault; and there may still be time to undo it," said Paul,
rising, for the flush that crept to the major's temples warned him that
the interview had been too long and too exciting.  "I would thank you,
if I could, for the thought of me, and I am sorry to have been the
cause of disappointment, but it would not have been honest to hide my
opinions."

"No; you've been honest enough, in all conscience.  If there's yet
time----"  He broke off, turning away his head, and taking no notice of
Paul's departure.

All that night Paul paced his room in deep thought.  The scene he had
witnessed had stirred him more than a little; and it grieved him to his
heart that he had so seriously disturbed the last moments of a dying
man.

"But I could not have hoodwinked him," he thought; "no honest man
could.  But to-morrow I'll prove to him that I am ready to help him in
any way that I can.  If he will only talk quietly, and keep his temper,
he could surely suggest some more fitting heir than I; and the business
details could be fairly quickly settled if I could take down his wishes
and see his lawyer.  He must yet have several days to live, I should
think, with his extraordinary vitality of brain."

At a very early hour the following morning, therefore, Paul presented
himself again at the house in the square, with the request that he
might have a short interview with the major.

"Very sorry, sir," said Smith, with an added gloom of manner, "but my
master's much worse; they don't think he'll live through the day.  He
was very restless last night; and nothing would satisfy him but that I
should go off in the middle of the night and fetch Mr. Morgan--the
lawyer as wrote to you, sir; but when I got him here my master had lost
his power of speech.  He knew Mr. Morgan quite well, but he could not
make him understand what he wanted."

"And now?" asked Paul, pitifully.

"The doctor is just coming down the stairs, and will speak to you, sir."

Paul went out into the hall to meet him.  "How did you find the major?"
Paul inquired.

"Dead," replied the doctor, drawing on his gloves.  "He died as I
entered the room."




CHAPTER III.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

"RUDHAM, Sunday Evening.

"DEAR SALLY,

"I did not, until now, believe myself a creature of impulse.  That I am
one is proved by the fact that, as I dropped my last letter to you into
the post-box, I made up my mind to run down here and have a look round;
and here I am.  My surroundings I will describe later.  I told you I
had decided not to go to poor old Major Lessing's funeral for various
reasons.  I have a horror of humbug; and to pose as sole and chief
mourner at the funeral of a man who had made me his heir by a fluke,
and if he had lived an hour longer would have altered his will, seemed
humbugging, to my mind.  Also the funeral service, beautiful as it
appears to those who can believe in it, means absolutely nothing to me;
and I have scruples about appearing as if it did.  Two surprises
awaited me at Rudham: first, that by the same train by which I arrived
Mrs. and Miss Webster got out upon the platform; and the beauty who
fascinated you 'all of a heap' at Brussels, turns out to be the tenant
of Rudham Court--_my_ tenant, in fact!--a judgment upon me, you will
say, for my unreasoning prejudice.  Secondly, the extreme difficulty of
getting a night's lodging, unless your character and circumstances are
well known, was borne in forcibly upon my mind!  An under-gardener of
Mrs. Webster's took me up in the cart which carried your charmer's
luggage.

"Judging by the size and number of the boxes, beauty needs a great deal
of adorning, by the way!  Then I was handed over to the village
blacksmith, and, under the shelter of his name, I persuaded a Mrs.
Macdonald to take me in.  You would describe her as 'quite a darling!'

"She and her husband are Scotch by birth, and still retain the soft
intonation and pretty accent.  They have no children--indeed, Mrs.
Macdonald informs me that they have not long been married; and she must
be fifty, and 'my John,' as she calls him, some ten years older; but I
have never seen two people more in love with each other.  If
surroundings are an index to character they must be very nice people
indeed.  Let me try and describe my room, which is furnished with the
solid simplicity of a hundred years ago.  A grandfather clock ticks
solemnly in the corner, two oak chairs stand on either side of the
fireplace, with down cushions in print covers on the seats--a
concession to modern luxury.  In place of the cheap modern sideboard an
open oak cupboard, whereon are displayed my dinner and tea-things,
furnishes one side of the room, leaving just sufficient space for two
Windsor chairs, polished to such a dangerous brightness that to sit
upon them without sliding off requires more careful balance than to
ride a bicycle.  An oak table with twisted legs, and flaps that let up
or down at will, is in the centre of the room.  One almost expects
clean rushes strewed upon the floor; instead there is linoleum of a
neat design--black stars upon a white ground; and Mrs. Macdonald prides
herself not a little upon the far-sighted policy that made her decide
upon linoleum rather than carpet.

"'It can be wiped over with a damp cloth every day, sir, and kept sweet
and clean; and if you're feet are cold, I'm not saying that I'll mind
your putting them on the rug, although I made it all myself'--which was
kind of Mrs. Macdonald!  My attention being thus drawn to the
hearthrug, I discover that it's a work of art, in its way, knitted in
with rags and tags of cloth, grave or gay in colouring, but harmonious
in the general effect.  You will think that I am developing a passion
for detail, but it is rather that I wish to photograph exactly my first
impressions of the place.  There seems a primitive simplicity about it
that must vanish at the first touch of modern progress like a pretty
old fresco exposed to the light, and I feel myself like a traitor in
the camp.  If I decide to live here I shall probably be the motive
force that will set the ball of progress rolling.  Life here is almost
stagnant, I fancy, unlike the river, which runs swift and strong along
the side of the village.  It separates from, rather than connects it
with the outer world, for there are dangerous currents which make it
not too safe for navigation; and to cross it you must either go to the
ferry, half a mile off, or make for the bridge at Nowell four miles
away.  I found out all this by a stroll after tea, last evening, and a
gossip with my new acquaintance, the blacksmith Allison.  Gradually the
talk turned to things parochial, and I discovered some characteristics
of the go-ahead parson, whose appointment to the living my godfather
gently deplored; and this was how it came about.  A tall,
powerful-looking man came swinging down the road at a brisk pace,
nodding in quick, alert fashion to one and another as he passed,
recognizing me as a stranger, but bidding Allison a cheerful good night
as he passed on in the direction of the inn.  By his dress I knew he
must be the parson of the place.  Allison, who had acknowledged his
greeting only by a sideways nod, gave a grunt of assent when I asked
him if it were so.

"'Curzon,' he said; 'that's his name, a meddlesome chap, if ever there
were one!  Now the last rector were a real gentleman!  You could please
yourself about going to church or staying at home; but he were
wonderful kind in sickness and such.'

"'And you miss the attention, I daresay?"

"'Well, I'm not saying that exactly.  Mr. Curzon's wonderful took up
with the sick folks and children, but it's us well ones he can't leave
alone.  His work's never done, as you may say.  Now what do you suppose
he's after to-night?' in a tone of angry argument.

"'I really can't guess.'

"'No; it's not likely you would.  He makes believe as he's gone for a
walk, but he'll be turning back again about such time as the men are
turning out of the public there!  Then, come next week, he'll be
droppin' into one cottage or another about such time as the man comes
in from work, and it'ull be, 'So and so, I'm afraid you had a glass too
much on Saturday night.  I wouldn't do it, if I was you;' and then he's
sure to put in something about coming to church on Sunday."

"And do they?' I asked.

"'Some on 'em.  Most of 'em, if I speaks the truth, gets tired of being
told of it, I think, and goes just to pacify him, as you may, say; but
I don't hold with it myself.'

"Apparently this faithful shepherd does succeed in driving a very large
proportion of his flock to church on Sunday.  Allison and I are
distinctly in a minority.  I was nearly being carried there forcibly
myself to-night; and I only escaped, I believe, because Mrs. Macdonald
has evolved, from the label on my portmanteau that I am the coming
squire, and must be allowed some liberty of opinion.

"'You'll be going to church to-night, sir,' she said, beginning the
attack with gentle firmness.  'John and I lock up the house and hide
the key under the mat, in case you come back before we do.  We have a
walk these summer evenings when church is over.'

"'Thank you, Mrs. Macdonald, you can leave the key in the door; I have
writing to do.'

"'But you'll be going to church, for sure; you were not there this
morning, I'm thinking, and the rector's sure to say something of him
that's gone.'

"I had not the courage of my opinions, like Allison.  How could I
grieve the kindly eyes that looked into mine?  So I took refuge in weak
evasion.

"'I've been over-worked and over-worried, Mrs. Macdonald, and my head
aches, and I need rest and quiet.'

"'Well there, sir; you'll forgive my making so bold, but it will grieve
the good man, if he knows you've come.  And there's a-many will be
disappointed not to catch a sight of you, besides.'

"'Whom do you mean by the good man?'

"'There now! it slipped out without thinking.  But it's what my John
and I call Mr. Curzon, for we've never come across such a one as he.'

"'And why am I to be a sort of show to the others?' I asked with some
curiosity.

"'Ah!  Because some of them begin to guess now who you are--not that
John nor I are much given to talk.  But when a neighbour asks your
name, we couldn't keep it no longer--could we, sir?'

"'Certainly not.  And they will all see me sooner or later, though it
won't be at church to-night.  I hope soon to know every one in the
place.'

"So finally I've been left in charge of the cottage, and have been
writing ever since this long rigmarole to you.  Mrs. Macdonald's words
have given me food for reflection, and, the more I reflect, the more
fully convinced I am how thoroughly unfitted I am to fill the place
allotted to me.  Had Major Lessing left me money enough to carry out my
own wishes, I should have been inclined to put his property in the
hands of a capable, fair agent, and do with it as Major Lessing
suggested, and keep things very much as they are; but I find that I
shall have little independent income apart from the property.  To keep
things in really working repair I shall probably have to raise the
rents--which are absurdly low--which, of course, will be a very
unpopular movement; and my being willing to live as simply as any of my
tenants, will not in the least soften their feeling towards me.  I
shall not do anything in a hurry, but I shall first try and master my
position.  After so many years of a non-resident squire of a strictly
conservative type, there must be need for improvements; but here again
comes in the question of money.  I am afraid that trip abroad must be
put off for the present.  How would it be for you to come here for a
bit?  I will sound Mrs. Macdonald on the subject to-morrow.  If I
undertake the management of things here myself, you would help me with
accounts, etc., and I could take you on as my paid secretary!  However
this is looking too far ahead.  I will keep this letter open and tell
you the result of my advances to-morrow."


"Monday Evening.

"I approached Mrs. Macdonald with much diplomacy this morning.  She
gave me the opening I sought by saying, when I ordered my dinner--

"'I suppose you'll be leaving to-day or to-morrow, sir.'

"'On the contrary, you are making me so comfortable, that I was going
to ask you to take me on for a few weeks, at any rate.'

"'But it isn't right or fitting that the likes of you should be living
in a cottage such as this.  The whole place belongs to you, I'm
thinking.'

"'I suppose it does.  But if I come to live here I shall start either
in a cottage, or quite a small house, with a sister of mine who has no
home, poor child!  How she would like to join me here, by the way.'

"Mrs. Macdonald played nervously with the string of her apron.  I could
see I had appealed to her motherly heart by representing you as a
motherless orphan.

"'I suppose you haven't a second bedroom,' I suggested, following up my
advantage.

"'It's a slip of a thing; not fit for a lady, sir.'

"'After all, ladies are much the same as other women; and my sister
might have the bigger bedroom and I the smaller.'

"'There's my John,' doubtfully.

"'Doesn't he like ladies?'

"'Not all of them, sir,' with a sudden burst of confidence.  'There's
Mrs. Webster; she called here one day to know if I'd take in some of
the washing--and he'd just come in from work,--and she marched into the
kitchen and talked very loud.  Though he's deaf he don't like no notice
taken of it; and he told her it 'ud be time enough for me to work when
he was laid by, and then he'd be sorry if I had to do it.'

"'But, of course, if Macdonald does not like us we will leave at once,'
I said, assuming that Mrs. Macdonald had agreed to have you.  So you're
to come, Sally; come as quickly as you can.  Don't bring much luggage,
for there is nowhere to put it; and pray remember to talk gently to our
host.  I cannot see why we should not double the size of this
cottage--put in a bath-room, and get Mrs. Macdonald to do for us; but
this will entirely depend upon your manners, you see.  I was preparing
to go out, when I saw a child's invalid carriage barring the entrance
to the gate, and a child's clear voice was giving very impressive
orders about the contents of a certain basket which was to be carried
up to the door.

"'You won't spill them, Nurse.  You'll be sure not to spill them;
they're so _very_ ripe they'd burst if you did.'

"'No, darling; I'll carry them as carefully as new-laid eggs.'

"The woman spoke like a lady; her tone was so gentle and refined.

"I was standing at the open door of the cottage, and went down the path
to meet her, asking if I could take in the basket to Mrs. Macdonald.

"'But they are not for her; they're for you.  But I'm afraid you're
better and don't want them,' said the voice from the carriage outside.

"'Whatever is inside that basket I'm sure to want,' I said, going out
to my odd little visitor; 'but I don't quite know why you are so kind
as to bring me things.  I'm afraid there's some mistake; I shall be so
disappointed if there is.'

"The blue eyes that looked up into mine began to smile.

"'Shall you really?  There can't be any mistake, because last night, as
Nurse wheeled me out of church, I heard daddy talking to Mrs.
Macdonald; and she said she'd got the new squire at home, but he'd a
dreadful headache and couldn't come.'

"I could scarcely help laughing; I certainly had not intended my words
to be accepted so literally.

"'Who are you?' I asked, 'and what's in that basket?  It wouldn't be
manners to peep inside, would it?'

"'Oh yes, it would,' with a delighted giggle.  'I'm Kitty--Kitty
Curzon,--and daddy says it's my work to look after any one who is not
well; and I'm to think what they will like, and take it to them.  So,
when I heard you had such a bad headache, I got Nurse to gather my last
red gooseberries--they are _very, very_ ripe,--and I've brought them
for you; and can I have the basket, please?'

"'Well, I can't accept them on the plea of headache: it's gone, you
see; but perhaps you will be so kind as to leave them all the same, for
if there is one thing I like more than another----"

"'It's gooseberries,' interposed Kitty, eagerly; and I nodded assent.

"The child shot a triumphant glance at Nurse.

"'She said you would not want them, and I'd better ask daddy; but he
likes me to think of things by myself.  And then at the end of the day
I tell him where I've been; and he'll be so surprised to-night, for he
didn't know I'd heard about you.'

"I carried off the basket, and brought it back, presently, empty.

"'I have not half thanked you, Kitty; but I am most grateful.  How old
are you, I wonder?'

"There was a moment's hesitation.  'I'm not young at all; I'm nine,
although you'd never think it, because I'm so small.  Daddy says
running about makes you grow, and I can't run.'

"'Her back is not strong, sir,' said Nurse, hurriedly; and as I looked
at the recumbent figure, I saw that the poor little child was deformed.
It seemed a terrible pity, for the face and head are singularly pretty.

"'That's why daddy says I must think of all the ill ones, because Nurse
and he think so much about me.'

"'Very well.  I shall be sure and send for you directly there is
anything the matter.  I fancy you would do me more good than a doctor.
And I've a sister coming, before long, and she will want companions.
You will have to come to tea.'

"'Is she as old as I am?'

"'A little older, I think.'

"'I'll come if daddy will let me; but Nurse must come too.'

"'By all means, and if you have any little brothers or sisters----'

"'I have not any.  There's only me,' interposed Kitty, shaking her head.

"'I wonder what her name is?'

"'My sister's, do you mean?  Sally.  Rather a nice name, isn't it?'

"Evidently Kitty did not like it much, for she said she must be going;
and went on her way, kissing her hand graciously, so I took off my hat
and waved it.

"From Mrs. Macdonald I gather that my first visitor is Mr. Curzon's
only child.  He is a widower, it seems, and Kitty is the cause of his
holding a country living.  By my landlady's account he is simply
wrapped up in her.  I have been the round of the village to-day, making
acquaintance with one and another as occasion offered.  As I
conjectured there seems plenty to be done; and it must be some months
before I can stir hand or foot, before I can get things even into my
own hands--not that the people here realize this in the very least.
Indeed they are intellectually dead; they seem to possess no ambition
of any sort.

"I went into the parish church on my way home.  It is an interesting
one, built about the end of the thirteenth century, with a magnificent
tower that one can see for miles round.  I found a great many monuments
to the Lessings--a very virtuous lot, if their memorial tablets are to
be trusted.  The church has been carefully restored--quite recently, I
fancy, by the look of it.  Then I went into the churchyard, where a
newly-filled-in grave showed me where my poor godfather had been laid.
The sacristan, a very old, infirm man was putting it tidy; and to my
astonishment I saw a low vase of white flowers placed in the very
centre of the grave.

"'I suppose I am not mistaken,' I said.  'This must be Major Lessing's
grave?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'And who put the flowers?'

"'Miss Kitty, the little maid at the rectory.  She said she'd thought
he'd be lonely without any;' and the sacristan straightened his back
with a little smile.

"'I hope you don't mind,' said a voice behind me.  'I've a notion your
relative did not like flowers at a funeral, but I could not upset
Kitty's conviction that he did.'

"It was the rector who had come upon me unawares, and he did not
pretend not to know me.

"'What can it matter now?' I answered.  'He'll know nothing of it.'

"But I must stop, I've no time to describe the good man.  Come and see
him for yourself.

"Ever yours,

"PAUL LESSING."




CHAPTER IV.

OPPOSING VIEWS.

The man who some centuries earlier had built Rudham Court, had been
wiser than the generation in which he lived in his choice of a site.
Instead of a valley he had chosen the side of a hill, and the sloping
foreground had been levelled into a succession of terraces, giving the
impression of an almost mountainous ascent to the house from the road
which lay beneath.  The house, not beautiful in itself, was softened by
the hand of time into a dull red that contrasted harmoniously with the
group of trees behind it, and the gravelled terrace in front with its
box-bordered beds was a blaze of colour in the brilliant sunshine of
the August morning.  It was bordered by a low stone wall along which
two peacocks strutted with almost ridiculous self-consciousness of
their beauty.  In the very centre was a flight of steps which descended
to the bowling-green beneath, where the yew hedge which grew round it
had been fantastically cut into the shape of an embattlemented parapet,
framing the distant view into a series of charming little pictures:
here a glimpse of the river, there a delightful vignette of the church.

Across the velvety turf of the green tripped Rose Lancaster, dangling a
basket from her arm, a picture herself in her pink cambric frock and
befrilled apron, a little French cap set upon her head which enhanced
the beauty of the golden hair.  Her skin was of the delicate colouring
that so often accompanies fair hair, the mouth generally wore a smile
displaying Rose's pretty dimples, and the great blue eyes were half
concealed by the long lashes.  She made her way to the wicket-gate at
the far end of the green, to a winding path through a wood which led to
the rose-garden below, and gave a start of pretended surprise when Tom
Burney broke off from his task of mowing the grass paths which
separated the beds, with an exclamation of delight.

"You here!" said Rose, who had watched the direction of his steps from
a window above.  "I've come after some roses, if I can find any.
Nothing satisfies Miss Webster but roses on the mantel-shelf of her
sitting-room, and it does not matter to her whether they are in season
or out.  Roses she must have.  Are there any coming on, Tom?"

[Illustration: "I've come after some roses."]

"Bother the roses!" said Tom, impatiently.  "You've been back nearly a
fortnight, and have not spoken a word to me yet."

"That's ungrateful.  I walked to church with you on Sunday evening, and
I told you lots of things I did when we were away."

"Dixon joined us, and you let him!" said Tom, angrily.

"How could I help it?" Rose answered, arching her pretty brows.  "I
could not say I didn't want him, could I?"

"Are you going to walk with him or me, Rose?  I asked you before you
went away, and I want to know now."

Rose meditatively clipped off a bud, crying out a little as a thorn
pricked her finger, holding out the injured member for Tom to look at;
but he looked over it at her, a flush on his handsome face.

"It may be play to you; it isn't to me," he said, his voice shaking a
little.  "Did you get the letter I wrote?"

"I don't know; I forget.  I had a lot of letters.  Yes, I expect I did."

"And you didn't trouble to answer it?"

"It's clear you don't know what a lot a lady's maid has to do when
she's travelling," said Rose, petulantly.  "It's 'Lancaster' here and
'Lancaster' there, and you've no sooner packed up than you begin
unpacking again.  What time should I get for answering letters?'"

"I wanted to know if you'd thought over what I said?"

"You can't expect me to remember what you said six weeks ago."

"You do remember, only you don't want to give a straight answer.
That's about it," said Tom, bitterly.

"I like walking with you both, though not together.  There!" cried
Rose, with a defiant toss of her head.  "I'm young; I don't mean to be
tied!"

"But you'll care for the one who loves you best, and that's me!" burst
out poor Tom.  "Dixon may be smarter, and he's a deal better off; but
he's a glib sneak, and I know it.  I'll wait three months, and then
I'll have my answer; and if it's 'No' I'll be fit to drown myself," and
Tom's voice broke off in something very like a sob.

Rose was flattered but frightened at realizing her power over the lad.
It was like a book, that he should threaten to drown himself for love
of her; but of course he did not mean it.  She was sorry for him; when
she was with him she almost believed she loved him, but at any rate she
need not decide now.  Three months hence she might know her own mind.

"Well, we'll wait three months and see what happens; and meantime I do
hope you'll be careful not to quarrel with Dixon."

"I shall if he comes in my way," declared Tom, sturdily.  "I don't
wonder he wants you himself--any man would; but he should play fair."

"He's no quarrel with you; he said you were a decent sort of a lad, the
other day."

Tom clenched his fist involuntarily.  "That's just it!--he's always
trying to run me down in your eyes.  A lad, indeed!  I'm a man who
wants the same girl he does, and that's yourself, Rose."

Rose laughed gaily; it was nice to find herself so much in request.

"Man or boy, I can't stay talking to you all day.  Pick me any roses
there are, and let me go.  I believe" (in a lowered undertone) "that I
hear the ladies talking up there on the bowling-green.  They've come
out to sit in the shade, I expect."

Rose's conjecture was right, for, as she went back to the house, she
caught a glimpse of Miss Webster and her mother seated under the large
tree at the far end of the lawn.

"How pretty she is," said May Webster, following her retreating figure
with lazy eyes.  "As pretty as the roses she carries.  I do hope she
won't get snapped up at once.  She is a pleasant little thing to have
about one--which reminds me, mother.  I saw a pretty girl of a
different type in the village yesterday, whom I believe to be Miss
Lessing.  What are you going to do about her and her brother?"

"Nothing at present, I think.  One really can't leave cards on a
cottage!"

"But you might on the people in it.  We can't very well ignore the
squire of the place who is also our landlord."

"It will be time enough to recognize him when he behaves like other
people."

"I don't see that he's a bit more peculiar than the University men who
take to slumming.  Anybody may do anything nowadays," May said with a
little laugh.

"He doesn't even come to church," persisted Mrs. Webster.

"A weakness shared by many men."

"But his sister might and _ought_," replied her mother, severely.

"Mr. Curzon seems to think it equally necessary for men and women,"
said May, mischievously.

"Oh yes.  Of course he's a dear good man, and I wish we were all like
him, but we aren't," answered Mrs. Webster, resigning all hope of
anything but moral mediocrity with a gentle sigh.  "He says Mr. Lessing
is a very nice fellow; but you can't quite rely on his opinion: he's a
good word for every one."

"Which is delightful, but not amusing; and one does need amusement,
mother.  Suppose we call at the cottage and follow up the call by an
invitation to dinner.  We might ask the rector to meet them."

"The worst of asking the rector is that he always wants something,"
said Mrs. Webster, a little plaintively.

"That we haven't got?"

"Oh, May, you know quite well what I mean!  It must be the heat that is
making you so argumentative.  Mr. Curzon always has some pet hobby on
hand for which he wants money, and of course he ought to have it; but
really, just now, what with a trip abroad, and the London house to
paint and paper throughout, I've not so much in hand as usual."

"Enough for the rector's last hobby, I dare say.  At any rate let's
risk it.  If we all air our different views we might have an exciting
evening."

"I wish things were as they used to be.  The old major was such a
thorough gentleman.  It was quite a pleasure to give him a bed or
dinner when he came down."

"Is not this man a gentleman, then?"

"Oh, my dear, I hope so; but he has queer views, if all I hear be true.
I'm sure, if he says anything at dinner about our being all equal, I
shan't be able to hold my tongue.  We never were and never can be."

"I believe Mr. Curzon thinks we are; only he likes poor people _much_
the best.  He says the truest gentleman he ever came across is old
Macdonald."

"Now it is wild talk like that that makes me sometimes distrust Mr.
Curzon; and he ought to know better, being of such good family
himself," said Mrs. Webster, fretfully.  "Is it not at the Macdonalds
that the Lessings are lodging?  As you seem to wish it, we will call
this afternoon."

Paul Lessing was out when the smart carriage and pair drew up at the
Macdonald's cottage in the course of the afternoon; and Sally had to
receive her two visitors alone.  Mrs. Webster's ample presence seemed
to fill the tiny sitting-room; but she placed herself graciously enough
in one of the cushioned elbow-chairs, whilst May subsided into the
slippery Windsor as gracefully as if it were the softest sofa.  There
was something about Sally that pleased her; it may have been a certain
originality and freshness of manner, or the unconscious admiration that
shone in the dark eyes.  Nothing in its way pleases a handsome woman
more than the admiration of her own sex.  Be this as it may, May
Webster laid herself out to charm, and did it very successfully, and by
judicious management prevented her mother from asking any leading
questions as to Mr. Lessing's future line of conduct.  Mrs. Webster's
small talk so often took the line of asking questions.

Paul was not properly grateful when he found the cards upon the
mantelshelf.

"It's a dreadful bore; but I'm afraid it can't be helped.  You can
return the call sometime, and there will be an end of it."

"There may be for you, but there won't be for me!" said Sally, with
some spirit.  "I'm catholic in my choice of companions, and mean to
include everybody who cares to know me.  Mrs. Macdonald is charming,
and Allison amuses me, and Mrs. Pink and I have made friends over the
baby; but why I should refuse a proffer of friendship from Miss
Webster, because she happens to be a beauty and dresses well, I don't
exactly see!"

"Friendship!" echoed Paul, scornfully.  "How little you know of smart
people and their ways.  Friendship with them means a stepping-stone to
higher things; your means and your position must give them a leg up in
the world.  Now we have neither."

"You are shaking my faith in you, Paul.  You are judging without
knowing."

"I am not judging the Websters individually--only the class to which
they belong; of which I _do_ know something, and you nothing."

"Well, I think I will learn for myself then!" cried Sally.  "I'll start
by believing people as nice as they appear, until I find them
otherwise."

"And are Mrs. and Miss Webster 'nice,' as you call it?" asked Paul, his
curiosity overcoming his vexation.

"I did not like Mrs. Webster much: the room did not seem big enough to
hold her."

"I told you so!" said Paul, triumphantly.

"Oh, Paul! you might be a woman," replied Sally, with mocking laughter.
"But listen; Miss Webster is as nice as she looks!  Can you want more?"

"It's a good thing to be young and enthusiastic."

"Certainly better than being old and cynical," retorted Sally, saucily.

The next morning's post brought a crested envelope, directed in a
dashing hand, to Sally, inviting Paul and herself to dinner at the
Court on the following evening.

"We shall be simply a family party," wrote the lady; "but, with such
near neighbours, I thought it more friendly to invite you for the first
time quite informally."

"You don't want to go!" exclaimed Paul, who felt the meshes of the
society net closing round him.

"Of course I do.  I want to see your house, and to feel what it would
be like to live there."

"I don't believe you have a proper frock to go in.  A coat and skirt
won't do."

"What nonsense!  I've an evening dress, of a sort; and they don't
invite my frock, but me!"

"We'll go, then, as you've set your heart upon it; but I feel as if it
were the letting out of water."

Certainly Paul had no reason to complain of Sally's appearance when she
came down ready dressed for her dinner on the following evening.  In
her simple white dress, cut away at the throat, with a soft muslin
fichu tied in front with long ends falling to the bottom other skirt,
she looked, as old Macdonald afterwards remarked to his wife, "as a
lady should:" fair, and fresh, and young.  Her dusky hair waved
prettily upon her forehead, and half concealed her ears; the face it
framed was not, strictly speaking, pretty, but it was bright and
animated, and the dark eyes and eyebrows were handsome.

"I've won one person's approval at any rate," said Sally, merrily, as
they started on their way.  "I went in to bid Macdonald good night, and
Mrs. Macdonald said, as she helped me on with my cape, that 'my John'
likes ladies to wear white dresses and have pale faces.  He could not
abide colour, except in flowers."

"Then you are fulfilling your mission, Sally, and winning your way into
Macdonald's good graces.  We shan't be turned out."

"It's my first dinner-party, Paul.  Do you realise the importance of
the occasion?  I've had no coming-out like other girls."

"That's why you are so much jollier than most of them," said Paul,
betrayed into a compliment.

From the moment they entered the drive-gate, and began the ascent to
the house, Sally looked about her with eager interest, breaking into
exclamations of delight as each step revealed some fresh beauty to her
eyes.

"It's a dangerous experiment to have brought you.  You will be horribly
discontented with Macdonald's, after this."

"I shan't.  But if this place were mine, I should live here, and make
it a joy to everybody about me.  I would not want to keep it to
myself," Sally said--

But the front door was reached, and a footman was at hand to help her
off with her cloak; and in another instant the door of the long
drawing-room was thrown wide, and Sally, with the un-self-consciousness
of simplicity, heard herself announced, and found her hand in Mrs.
Webster's, who retained it as she led her on towards a tall, handsome
man who stood talking to Miss Webster.

"Mr. Curzon, allow me to introduce Miss Lessing.  You've been away with
your little Kitty, so I don't think you've met each other yet."

Then Sally realized that she stood face to face with the good man, and
that he was to take her in to dinner, so that she would have time to
consider him carefully.  Mrs. Webster placed her hand graciously on
Paul's arm when dinner was announced, and May trailing yards of
amber-coloured silk behind her, sailed in by herself.

The dinner-table was oval, and Sally found herself seated between the
Rector and May; on the other side sat Paul, with Mrs. Webster and May
to talk to alternately.  The very perfection of her surroundings
engaged Sally's attention at first: the delicately shaded lights
shining down on the dainty flowers, and silver and glass; the dinner,
remarkable rather for elegance than profusion; the family portraits on
the wall, bewigged and befrilled, which stood at ease, and glanced down
on the company with a sort of haughty indifference; the heavy, handsome
furniture combining beauty with comfort; and last, but not least, May
herself, whose beauty in her evening dress was simply dazzling.

Paul, reduced to commonplaces, was asking Mrs. Webster if the place
suited her.

"A leading question, Mr. Lessing," she answered, with a sort of heavy
playfulness.  "I've no doubt you would be glad to hear it did not.  But
we are so fond of it, May and I; it's just the country place we want
for the summer months.  We are always in London for the season.  But
our lease is nearly run out, you know; and then, I'm afraid, naughty
man! you will not let us renew it."

"Why not?  I'm not likely to get better tenants," said Paul, politely.

"But you may be wanting to live here yourself, you see."

"Such a plan is very far from my thoughts at present.  I neither wish,
nor can afford it."

"But where else _can_ you go?" asked Mrs. Webster, as if her life
depended on the answer.

The plea of poverty must be ignored; it was only advanced because Mr.
Lessing was her landlord!

"I've not decided yet.  Sally and I are quite happy where we are."

"But you could not go on like that.  It hardly seems right, you know."

"I don't see where the wrong comes in."

"Your very position as squire; you will be expected to be an employer
of labour, you see."

"So I suppose I shall be, in time, although perhaps not about my house
and garden.  There are a great many things that will have to be done in
the place when I get my affairs into order."

"Ah yes, of course; it's wonderful how the money flies.  Here's Mr.
Curzon insisting that the schools must be enlarged; I expect you are
like him, and think that everybody ought to know everything, and that
each child must have so many cubic feet!  I'm sure I can't cope with it
all.  I only know we, who are a little better off, have to pay for it.
He wants me to give a hundred pounds, and I tell him I really can't:
fifty is the utmost, and that is more than I can afford.  I advise you
to keep clear of him to-night; he's sure to ask you to subscribe a
similar sum."

"It's a voluntary school, I suppose?" said Paul, glancing across at the
rector.  "I could not subscribe to that; I'm in favour of a board
school, you see."

Sally, looking from one to the other scented trouble, for Mr. Curzon
broke off in the middle of a sentence, and his smiling, kindly face
grew grave as he gazed steadily back at her brother.  There was a
moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I was going to call and discuss the matter of the school with you,"
said Mr. Curzon, at last; "but I did not mean to introduce the subject
to-night."

"Of course not.  We could not possibly allow it; could we, mother?"
interposed May, with an air of relief.  "I feel at the present moment
we all need more cubic feet.  It's so very hot; I almost think we could
sit outside."  And as she spoke a general move was made for the
terrace, where seats and tables were arranged.

As neither of the men took wine they did not stay behind; and May, who
was clever enough to see that they were both ready to show fight for
their individual opinions, engaged Paul in conversation, whilst Mr.
Curzon carried off Sally to see the bowling-green by moonlight.

"I never saw anything so quaintly pretty," Sally said.  "The yew hedge
with its succession of views suits it exactly."

"Yes, doesn't it?" replied her companion.  "This is naturally my
favourite;" and he paused at the opening where, below, the church stood
out grand and stately against the evening sky.  "Is it not a grand old
tower?  It stands just as a church should; it dominates the place."

The ring of enthusiasm in his voice brought an answering thrill into
Sally's heart.

"Are you sure that it does really?" she asked, moved by a sudden
impulse.

"I hope so; I pray God it may be so.  If not in my time then in
another's."




CHAPTER V.

A QUESTION OF EDUCATION.

"I can't think why you, or any reasonable man, should object to a board
school?" said Paul, who had been expounding his views at some length to
the rector.  "The people should have a voice in the matter of their
children's education; and it can't be fair that any particular system
of religion should be forced upon them.  In a place like this you would
be pretty certain to come out at the head of the poll, and, if
religious teaching seems such an essential, you would be allowed to
give it with limitations."

"With limitations that would practically make it useless," said Mr.
Curzon.  "I am prepared to make any sacrifice rather than surrender the
religious training of the children God has given to my care.  It will
be a hard matter, with you against me, but I must stick fast by my
principle."

"In a few more years there won't be a voluntary school left in the
country," said Paul.

"Mine shall be one of the last to die," replied Mr. Curzon.

"You are fully persuaded that you are carrying out the wishes of your
people."

"I am sure that, as far as I know it, I shall be doing my duty by
them--and that must come first; but they shall have an opportunity of
expressing their opinion.  I am going to call a meeting about the
enlarging of the school, and I shall try and persuade every one to
attend it."

"Including myself?" inquired Paul, with a rather sceptical smile.

"I shall wish you, of course, to be there."

"But I can only be there in opposition to your views," Paul said.

"A clergyman gets used to opposition," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly;
"but if the school is to be continued under the management of myself
and my churchwardens, it shall be no hole-and-corner business: it shall
be with the consent and confidence of the majority of my people."

Paul rose to go; and there was rather a troubled look on his face as he
took Mr. Curzon's out-stretched hand.  It was such a kindly, friendly
grip.

"I'm afraid we cannot help coming across each other as we both have the
courage of our opinions; but at least you will believe that I have the
social development of the village very near at heart."

"And there, at least, we agree," said Mr. Curzon, smiling; "but with me
their spiritual welfare is even more urgent."

Kitty's little carriage was drawn up at the door, as she was just
returning from an outing.  She greeted Paul with a beaming face, which,
as he came closer, grew clouded with anxiety.

"I'm afraid you've got another headache, and I've got nothing to bring
now," she said.  "Blackberries wouldn't do.  They are rather nasty,
daddy thinks."

"I've not got a headache, Kitty, thank you," said Paul, leaving the
question of blackberries in abeyance.  "What made you think I had?"

"You were frowning; but perhaps it was the sun in your eyes.  Has your
sister bigger than me come yet?"

"Oh yes; she has been here quite a time, and you have not been to see
her."

"I've been away; did not you know?--away with daddy," with a proud
glance up at her father.  "It was lovely; he had no one to think of but
me, and I was with him on the beach nearly all day long."

"Ah, that's how you come to have such roses in your cheeks.  Well, when
are you coming to have tea with Sally and me?  You shall choose your
own day."

"Would to-morrow do?  It's Sunday; and daddy likes me to have all the
happiest things on Sunday.  But I forgot; Nurse was to come, too, but
she goes out on Sunday afternoon."

The sweet-faced woman who wheeled Kitty about gave an amused little
laugh.

"It would be rather nice for you to go this once alone, Miss Kitty; and
I could wheel you there on my way out----"

"And Sally and I could bring you home.  Would not that do?" said Paul
to Mr. Curzon.

"If you are sure you will not be troubled with her."

"Oh dear, no; it has been a long-standing engagement--has it not,
Kitty?"

"Daddy dear, lift me out, please!" said Kitty, when Paul had gone on
his way.  "I like him so much, although I don't remember his name.
It's rather a funny one, but I like him; he has such kind eyes."

Mr. Curzon tenderly lifted his little daughter out of her carriage, but
made no answer to her remark about their new neighbour.  To himself he
was free to admit that the new squire's views troubled him sorely.

"We are to have our first tea-party to-morrow, Sally.  I have invited
the district visitor."

"Who?" asked Sally, in considerable astonishment.

"Kitty Curzon--whose loving care for my head has won my heart.  The
child persists in believing that I live in a chronic state of headache,
and resorts to her own methods of cure.  Ours is a friendship doomed to
be nipped in the bud, alas!  Let us make the most of it while it lasts."

"What is to kill it?"

"The father is the difficulty; he has caught sight of my cloven hoof
this morning, and, depend upon it, he will not trust Kitty to us often.
He had to consent to her coming this morning, for she arranged it all
under his very eyes; and I saw he had not the heart to thwart her.
She's a young woman who evidently gets her own way up to a certain
point; but unless I'm greatly mistaken, the fatherly fiat will go forth
that the less she sees of us the better."

"I would rather she did not come at all, then," said Sally, hotly.

"I wouldn't; she has chosen this tea as her Sunday treat," Paul
answered with a humorous smile.

By four o'clock on the morrow the little invalid carriage stopped at
the Macdonald's gate, and Paul ran down to greet his visitor.

"Wait a moment, Kitty; Nurse and I between us can lift the whole thing
in, and then she can go on for her outing, and you shall be left to
Sally and me."

Kitty's eyes looked beyond Paul at Sally, who stood smiling behind.

"You did not tell me she was grown-up like everybody else," she
answered irrelevantly.

"Oh, there's a lot of difference even between grown-up people, as I
will presently show you," said Paul.  "Meanwhile, before you talk to
Sally, we'll get you into the cottage."

"Shall you carry me, like daddy?  I can walk on crutches, but it hurts
me rather," said Kitty.  And Paul lifted her in his strong arms as
gently as if she were a baby, and Sally followed with the crutches, her
soul filled with pity for the child so perfectly developed as far as
the waist, but whose legs were twisted and helpless.

Evidently poor Kitty had some affection of the spine.  Sally felt her
pity almost misplaced before the afternoon was over; Kitty's enjoyment
of life in general, and her present entertainment in particular was so
genuine, and her laughter so infectious.

By a happy inspiration Mrs. Macdonald had suggested that the tea should
be held in the orchard behind the house, and Kitty's carriage was
placed under the tree which bore the rosiest apples, one or two of
which fell with a flop at her feet.

"Such as comes to little missy she must take home with her," said
Macdonald, smiling benignantly from his seat in the kitchen, and
bestowing a meaning glance at Paul, who, mindful of the hint, shook the
boughs as he handed Kitty her tea, bringing a shower of red fruit about
her.

The conversation never flagged; Kitty's life seemed full of interest,
both at home and abroad, and she was fast friends, apparently, with
every soul in the place, including Allison, who had won her affection
for ever by presenting her with a Persian kitten, whom she brought down
regularly once a week to call upon its former owner.  When the bells
began to chime for evening service Kitty signified her wish to depart.

"We could take little missy," said Macdonald.  "We'll be going that way
ourselves."

"No, thank you," said Paul.  "We promised to take you home--did not we,
Kitty?"

Had he realized quite what the fulfilment of that promise involved, he
might have been inclined to accept the Macdonald's offer, for when he
and Sally had wheeled their visitor as far as the rectory, and were
going to enter, she shook her head vigorously.

"We can't get in there--it will be all locked up--every one's gone to
church.  Please take me on! my carriage goes into the belfry, and, as I
lie there, I can see all down the church."

There was no disobeying such clear directions, so Paul, with a smile,
humbly did as he was bid.

"Is that all you want?" he asked, when he had adjusted Kitty's carriage
to the exact angle which she liked best.

He was in a hurry to slip out before the service began; Sally waited
for him outside.

"Oh no; I haven't got my book and things," said Kitty.  "They are in
the box in the corner; daddy had it made for me, and here's the key,"
producing a key on a string from round her neck.  "There's a nice red
one you can use that belongs to Nurse."

By the time Paul had unlocked the box and found the books, Kitty's
hands were devoutly folded in prayer, and her eyes fast shut.  She
opened them presently with a bright smile.

"Thank you," she half-whispered.  "Now if you bring that chair close to
me, you'll find my places for me; Nurse always does.  I've not learned
to read so very long--daddy would not let me."

Paul, feeling himself a victim of circumstance, fetched the chair and
seated himself.

"I suppose he's forgotten to say his prayers," thought Kitty, as she
noticed that he neither knelt down nor even placed his hand over his
eyes, which were the varying methods of paying homage to God, that she
had observed the men of the congregation adopted when they came into
church.

Paul found his position a singular one.  He had not been present at a
service of any description since his college days.  It would not be
true to say that he had lost his belief; he had never had any.  He
might well question the necessity of religious education, for he had
had none himself.  He and Sally had been baptized as babies, just
because their mother had wished it; but after her death their father,
who cared for none of these things, left their religious training to
chance.

"Speak the truth, and behave like a gentleman," he said to Paul, when
he was sent at an early age to school; "and if ever you get into a
scrape, come to me and tell me all about it."

It was a very simple moral code, and Paul lived by it both at school
and college; and before his college course was ended his father had
died.  Christianity had not appealed to him in any way; he regarded it
as a worn-out system of religious belief that had been a moral force in
the world, but was dying now, slowly perhaps, but surely.  Perhaps in a
remote village like this, where a Rector of strong personality was at
the head of affairs, it might be fanned into a flame for a time, but it
would not last.  It certainly had a semblance of life to-night, Paul
admitted, as the congregation rose to its feet at the opening bars of
the voluntary, and the white-robed choir entered, followed by Mr.
Curzon.  There was scarcely an empty seat, and there were as many men
present as women; and they were there, apparently, not to look on but
to worship, if hearty singing or burst of response were any criterion.
There was a scarcely a voice silent save Paul's own.

Viewed as a picture it was a pretty one, framed as it was by the high
narrow Early English arch which opened from the belfry into the nave.
First came the bowed heads of the kneeling people, and, through the
beautiful old screen which separated chancel from nave, the altar shone
out in strong relief against its background of soft-coloured mosaic,
the rays of the western sun giving an added touch of brilliance to its
decoration of cross and flowers.

But Kitty's hand was laid upon Paul's arm, and "Psalms, please!"
brought him back from his reverie to his duty.  He did not keep her
waiting again, and he was interested by watching the sensitive, eager
little face.  There was no question that the child was following the
service heart and soul; but when the sermon time came she was fairly
tired out, and, turning her head a little on one side, she was soon
fast asleep.

"If the Lord be God, follow Him," said Mr. Curzon; and Paul glanced up
at the preacher, and noticed that every head was turned in the same
direction.  And yet it was no great eloquence that held them, but a
certain manly simplicity of speech which carried conviction of the
preacher's absolute sincerity.  He prefaced his sermon with a notice of
a public meeting that was to be held about the schools in the course of
the coming week, at which he begged the attendance of all interested in
the subject of education.  The time had come when the schools must be
enlarged, and he put the question of whether this should be done by
private subscription, or by turning the school into a board school,
very simply before his people, telling them that a grave question was
involved in the decision--that of religious education.

"There are those among you who will say that in this matter the parsons
want it all their own way; but, for myself, I emphatically deny the
charge.  I want God's way, and it is not until after much thought and
prayer that I venture to place this matter before you to-night.  It is
one that I, as shepherd of this flock, must talk to you about, for holy
hands have been laid upon my head, and the souls of all in this place
are committed solemnly to my charge; and I must claim the little ones
for the Master whom I serve, I wish to retain the right to train them
as faithful and true members of Christ and His Church.  I should not be
faithful to my office unless I try to make you fully grasp the danger I
believe to lurk in education that is robbed of its crowning glory--the
knowledge of God."

Paul listened to the simple appeal which followed with interest not
unmixed with irritation.

"He has the whip-hand over me; he rules his people by their hearts
rather than by their heads," he said to Sally, afterwards, when he was
giving her the gist of the sermon.  "Parsons have a greater chance of
propagating their views than any other set of men.  Twice a day every
Sunday they can lay down the law with never a soul to gainsay them."

"But lots of us don't go to listen," said Sally.

Paul laughed.  "Well, no; I don't think there are many country
congregations like the one I saw to-night.  I'm not sorry to have been
there for once.  In future we'll fix some other day than Sunday for our
visitor.  I really could not hurt the child's feelings, and yet I
cannot be led along a victim at her chariot wheels."

"I can't think why you take so much notice of her?  You've never cared
for a child before."

"She bought me with ripe gooseberries," Paul answered laughing.  "I
couldn't refuse a child's friendship any more than a dog's."

The Rector's sermon was fully discussed at the forge the following
evening.

"Says I to Mr. Lessing to-day when we was talking together about this
eddication business, 'It's all very well sayin' as we must make the
schools so fine and grand, but what I wants to know is, who's goin' to
pay?" said Allison.  "Them as has got the money, I s'pose."

"What did he say?" asked Tom Burney.

"'If I have my way it'll be thrown upon the rates.'  But I'm not sure
I'm with him there.  Once let the rates run up, and we dunno where we
are.  Seems to me, with all his free-and-easy ways, and his living like
one of us, he's a bit close-fisted--not a bit like the old major.
Depend upon it, he don't want to put down his cool hundred; and that's
why he talks so brisk about the rates.  There's something about it as
I've not got clear yet, for the rector comes along this morning, quite
cheery like, and sings out as he passes, 'Comin' to the school meetin'
a Friday, Allison?  Room for all.  I wants this school business
settled.'"

"We couldn't settle it no better than it is at present, I'm thinking,"
interposed Macdonald gently.  "To hear the rector talk a Sunday night
about it were grand, that it was; and, if it's money he wants, there
isn't one of us that oughtn't to help him."

"Rich fellers like you can talk about money!" retorted Allison, with
withering scorn; "but for me, who makes every penny I earns, he may
think hisself well off to get the five shillin's I gives him every year
for those blessed schools.  I'll stick to that five, neither more nor
less, unless the squire gets his way; and then I won't give nothink but
what I'm made to."  But Allison found himself without an audience.
With the mention of money the company had dispersed.




CHAPTER VI.

A VOTE OF CONFIDENCE.

"It must take it out of one dreadfully to be so terribly in earnest,"
said May Webster, softly stroking the pug dog that lay curled up in her
lap.

"As who?" asked her mother, looking up from her writing.

"As Mr. Curzon; you might think his life depended on this school
business.  I really could not follow all he said this afternoon; but,
apparently, he and Mr. Lessing have come to grief already about it.
There's another earnest one--with this difference between them: that
Mr. Curzon is earnest and agreeable, and Mr. Lessing earnest and
disagreeable."

"He's more tiresome than disagreeable, May.  I call it tiresome to live
in a cottage instead of a house, and to keep his sister from church--I
suppose that that is his doing,--and to upset us all when we are quiet
and happy.  He's paying such high wages, they say, to the men he has
set at work over the drainage of some of his cottages, that I expect
all our men will be asking us to raise theirs."

"I wonder which of them is right?" said May, returning to the subject
of the schools.

"Mr. Curzon, of course; he's a clergyman, my dear!"

"Then you will go to the meeting to-night."

"You must be crazed, May, to think of such a thing.  I go to a school
meeting!  If there is one type of woman I dislike more than another,
it's the one to be found on platforms."

"I had not thought of you on a platform exactly.  It only occurred to
me that you would give Mr. Curzon your moral support, as your
sympathies go with him.  You carry weight, you see," which was true in
more senses than one.

Mrs. Webster put the most favourable interpretation upon the phrase.

"Of course, if you really think it my duty, May," she said, softening
visibly, "and would come with me----"

"Oh, I intend going anyhow," interposed May, carelessly.

"It's such a new departure for you to take a prominent part in parish
things," exclaimed Mrs. Webster.

"Oh, parish has nothing to do with it!  I'm going as a disinterested
spectator to see the two earnest ones fight it out."

"My dear!" remonstrated her mother in a shocked tone.

"If I have a bias it's in favour of the rector.  I don't pretend to
understand the merits of voluntary versus board schools; but, as you
say, a clergyman is always right--most probably Mr. Curzon's is the
better cause, and most certainly he is the better man."

"Dear, dear; and we shall have to dine at seven, and keep as we are, I
suppose?" with a glance at the stately folds of her brocade dress.

"Yes; we won't treat a school meeting like a theatre," said May,
laughing.  "Will it be considered unduly flippant on my part to go in
this muslin? or ought I to wear black, as at a funeral?"

"It cannot signify in the least; a change of dress would not alter your
flippant mind," replied her mother, with unusual smartness.  "Dear Mr.
Curzon has really convinced me that it is a most important subject, so
I don't mind making a sacrifice for once in a way."

"By dining an hour earlier than usual and not changing your dress!  All
right, mother; I'll order the carriage for ten minutes to eight.  We
may as well be punctual."

The back benches of the schoolroom were crowded to overflowing when May
and her mother entered that evening.

"It's very hot, May.  I'm not sure that I can stay," said Mrs. Webster,
pausing in the doorway.

"Oh yes, mother; we'll see it through to the bitter end," said May, in
an undertone.  "There are seats in the front."

Mrs. Webster picked her way daintily through the crowd, and Mr.
Lessing, who was seated at the end of one of the desks, stood up to let
her pass.  May's skirt caught against a nail, as she followed, and Paul
bent to set it free; but as May turned smiling to thank him, it gave
her a faint shock of surprise to read the dislike that found expression
in his eyes.  Her smile faded, and she passed on her way with a haughty
little bow.

"I wonder why he hates me?  I am not aware that any man has ever viewed
me with honest dislike before," she thought, as she took her seat by
her mother.

Paul, on his side, was inspired with the same unwilling admiration and
active irritation as on the occasion of their first meeting at
Brussels.  Beautiful she undoubtedly was; so beautiful that his eyes
unconsciously followed her every movement.  The cordial greeting she
accorded the rector--so different from her bow to himself,--and the
poise of her head, as she turned to look at the rows of expectant faces
behind her, giving a smiling nod to Mrs. Macdonald, who, duly impressed
with the gravity of the occasion, sat by the side of her John with her
hands clasping a clean pocket-handkerchief as if she were at church.
Paul tried to define the cause of his annoyance as he looked at her.

"It is the hard crust of indifference which society people cultivate to
such perfection; it's the assurance which beauty assumes.  She has come
here most probably in search of a new sensation," he thought.

But the rector, who sat on a platform at the end of the room, with his
two churchwardens, was already on his feet, and Paul pocketed his
annoyance and settled himself to listen.

"My friends," he began, "we have met to-night to consider on what basis
our school shall be carried on; whether at this crisis in school
affairs, which demands an outlay of some seven or eight hundred pounds,
the voluntary system shall be continued; or whether it shall be turned
into a board school, paid for out of the rates, and managed by a
committee chosen by the votes of the people.  It is not a question that
it has been necessary for us to discuss before.  My people, I believe
to a man, have been content to entrust the education of their children,
the practical management of the school, to the churchwardens and
myself, supporting us by their voluntary subscriptions; but a murmur
has reached our ears that some of you are dissatisfied with this
arrangement.  My churchwardens and I feel reluctant to retain the
management of the school unless fully assured that we are fulfilling
the wishes of the majority of the people.  You one and all know my
views on this subject, and the principle that I believe to be involved
in your decision.  Whichever scheme is followed will mean a
considerable outlay of money.  It is for you to decide whether that
money shall be exacted from you by rate, or whether it shall be given
freely and liberally out of the means with which God has blessed you."

The rector closed with a request that any one wishing to address the
meeting would come up to the platform, and, in answer to the challenge,
Paul Lessing walked up the room and took his stand before the people.
He was clever, and gifted with readiness of speech, but something in
the audience baffled him; whether it was the stolid imperturbability of
the faces in the back benches, or May Webster's half-amused,
half-scornful smile just below him, he could not decide.  But he pulled
himself together, determining to state his case as shortly and clearly
as he could.

He expressed no doubt that in times past the school had been well and
ably managed; but he reminded them that Government had seen fit to
place in their hands a power which the people in country places were
slow to recognize: that of exercising a control over the education of
their children.  That all authority on a subject so important should be
vested in the hands of two or three men of the same way of thinking,
seemed to him, at the best, a one-sided arrangement; surely it was more
just that a committee of men should be chosen by the votes of the
people, and that every form of thought should find its exponent--thus
keeping the balance of opinion even.  Much more he said, and said it
ably, ending with a strong appeal that each one there present,
unbiassed by any cry of party, should think out this subject for
themselves, and consider whether he was doing the best for the place in
which he lived by saying, that what had been should be and could not be
improved; or whether he would make use of that power vested in him by
Government, and should decide to let his voice, in the education of the
future generation, find expression in that great and powerful
development of modern times, a School Board.

Allison, forgetful of his fears about rates, murmured "Ooray!" as the
squire resumed his seat; and the rector, thanking the squire for his
able expression of his views, asked if there were any one else who
would give them the benefit of his opinion.  There was a long silence.
It was hoped that Allison would have something to say and one and
another gave him a friendly nudge, but the blacksmith was too wise to
commit himself; he halted between two opinions.  But there was a murmur
of astonishment as Macdonald rose and, supporting his burly form
against the wall, cleared his throat, and began to speak a little
huskily.

"No, thank you, sir," he said in answer to a nod from the rector to
come up to the platform.  "I ain't scholard enough to stand up there,
but there's something I wants to say.  The squire says as we should
know our own minds, and I'd like to tell you what's mine.  Who should
have care of the children but the man who loves 'em like his own, who
goes reg'lar to see after 'em every day whilst we goes to work, who
teaches 'em to be good at school and to mind what their parents says at
home, and wants 'em most of all to love their God?  If we voted him out
to-night we'd vote him in again to-morrow, and I'll give a pound
to-night to show as I'm ready to bide by my words.  That's all,
gentlemen."

And Macdonald sat down with a very red face, which he promptly mopped
with a redder pocket-handkerchief, whilst Mrs. Macdonald unfolded her
clean one and wiped happy tears from her eyes.  She dated every event
in after life from the night when "my John" made his speech in the
schoolroom.  Its effect was electric, and roused the meeting to
enthusiasm.

A vote of confidence in the present management was proposed and carried
by an overwhelming majority, as seventy hands were counted in support
of it, and only five were raised against it.  The subscription list lay
on the table, and not a few of the working-class, mindful of
Macdonald's example came up to enter their names under his.

"I shall make my subscription a hundred pounds, May; I really shall,"
said Mrs. Webster, feeling that her moral support was taking
substantial form.  "Poor Mr. Curzon!  I think Mr. Lessing's speech was
very uncalled-for, and that old Macdonald really surprised me.  I
thought him a rude old man the only time I spoke to him, but to-night
he was simply charming.  I felt almost inclined to cry.  I'm going to
put down my name now.  I wish Mr. Curzon to realize that I am on his
side, whatever the squire may be;" and Mrs. Webster swept towards the
platform.

Left to herself May stood and looked down the room which was emptying
rapidly.  The squire stood apart but, catching her eye, moved towards
her with a slightly satirical smile.

"So you've lived it through, Miss Webster; you've faced the bitter
end," he said, quoting her words.

"Yes; and I've not been bored at all," she answered, resenting his tone.

"You came to scoff, in fact, and you remained to pray."

"I came with an open mind, prepared to be converted by the best
speaker, and I found him in Macdonald," said May, defiantly.
"Henceforth I shall be an ardent supporter of the voluntary system."

Paul laughed.  "Will your ardent support take tangible form like old
Macdonald's?" he said.  He spoke in pure jest, but May accepted his
words literally and flushed a little.  "It's a question that your very
short acquaintance with me hardly justifies you in asking, does it?"

"Not in earnest, certainly; I spoke in the merest fun.  If I vexed you,
I apologize."

"You did vex me.  It is the second time to-night that you have put
yourself out of the way to say a disagreeable thing.  People may think
as many disagreeable things as they like, but they have no right to
give expression to them."

"But now you are charging me with sins which I have not committed.  I
have not spoken to you for five minutes, and no other sentiment of
mine, that I know of, needs a special apology."

"A look does!  You looked cross as you stooped to unfasten my dress
from that nail when I came into the room: it bored you to render me
even that very slight service.  Pray don't attempt to deny it! you
possess the merit of being strictly truthful."

"Truthfully disagreeable apparently," said Paul, a little nettled.

"And now," said May, restored to perfect good-humour by having spoken
out her mind, "the platform seems vacant; shall we go and consider that
subscription list, or will it hurt your feelings?"

"Not the least.  I've suffered defeat, but I was glad of the
opportunity of speaking."

"Why?" asked May, as she mounted the platform.

"Because I have won four to my side; I made four people think."

"Then the people who followed Macdonald's lead, which includes myself,
are credited with not having the capacity of thinking.  That is your
inference, is it not?" asked May, with a gay laugh.

"You have a sharp tongue, Miss Webster.  All I hinted at was that
country people are slow to exercise their individual judgment on any
question.  They follow each other like a flock of sheep."

"And aren't they wise to do it when they have so kind and good a
shepherd?" with a glance at the rector's handsome head, as he stood at
a little distance off, talking with a happy, radiant face to her
mother.  "I wish you would tell me what possible motive you had in
trying to upset a man who lives in the hearts of his people."

Paul was interested in spite of himself, for he saw that May had passed
from brilliant nonsense to earnestness.

"It was not the man I wished to upset--nobody can fail to appreciate
his simple earnestness,--but it is his principle.  And your very
intolerance makes me feel that I was right to state the other side of
the question."

"We won't quarrel any more; I'm tired of it," said May, with a quick
change of mood.  "Let us look at all the people who are ready to bide
by their words, as Macdonald puts it."

The subscription list was headed by the rector with two hundred pounds.

"He's not a rich man," said May, pointing to the sum.

"And he can't be a poor one," retorted Paul.

May seated herself and toyed with the pen which lay upon the table.

"I'm in a difficulty; I want an opinion."

"Legal?" said Paul.  "If so, I might help you.

"Moral rather."

"Oh, then it's a case for the man who lives in the hearts of his
people.  Shall I call him?"

"You are not keeping the peace.  For want of a better adviser I'll put
my difficulty before you."

"And I will give you my opinion for what it is worth; you need not act
on it unless you like."

"Oh no, I shan't.  Should you think it right for me to put my name down
on this subscription list when I owe, I'm afraid to say how much, to my
dressmaker?"

"At the risk of being told again that I'm truthfully disagreeable, I
answer emphatically, No!  I should call it a most immoral act."

"Well, I'm going to do it anyway, and the person who has influenced me
is yourself.  You implied that I was unwilling to pay for my
convictions; and my dressmaker must wait."

And May dipped her pen in the ink and wrote her name boldly under her
mother's.

"Don't do it!" pleaded Paul, hurriedly.  "Can't you see that the
dressmaker, who earns her money so hardly, and waits for it so long,
has the first right to yours?"

"May!" called her mother.  "Are you never coming?  I can't be kept
waiting all night."

May hesitated for a moment, and then, half ashamed of yielding to the
man whose dislike of her was fast deepening into contempt, she dashed
her pen through the name she had just written, bringing her hand, as
she did so, into contact with the lamp upon the table.  With a
smothered exclamation Paul bent across her and tried to stay its fall,
but he was not in time.  With a crash it fell forwards breaking the
bowl, and a trickling stream of blazing paraffin ran down May's muslin
skirt, enveloping her in flame.  A piercing shriek from the other end
of the room showed that Mrs. Webster realized her daughter's peril, and
the rector dashed forward to the rescue; but Paul had already torn his
coat from his back, and was holding it closely upon the burning skirt.

"See to the platform! she's safe enough!" he shouted as the rector ran
up; and, almost before May realized the extreme danger from which she
had been delivered, she was lifted from the platform and laid very
gently on the floor.

"What are you putting me on the floor for?  I'm not going to faint,"
she said, with lips that trembled a little.  "I'm all right.  Don't let
mother be frightened."

Paul could not but admire the girl's wonderful self-possession.

"And you are not burned?  You are sure you are in no way hurt?"

"Thanks to your marvellous quickness, no," she answered.

But Mrs. Webster, tearful but thankful, was at hand, and Paul felt he
could not do better than leave May in her mother's charge.

The rector, meanwhile, with one or two others, was successfully
battling with the burning stream of paraffin; and in a few minutes all
serious fear of a conflagration was over.

"Now we had better see the ladies to their carriage," he said turning
to Paul.  But already they had taken their departure.  "We can't be too
thankful for such a narrow escape.  The platform looked all on fire
when Mrs. Webster's scream made me turn round.  Can you tell me how it
happened?"

"I think Miss Webster caught the lamp with her hand as she got up from
the table.  She had been reading the subscription list."

"Which reminds me that the list is burned to a cinder.  But it does not
signify; people will remember their promises," said Mr. Curzon.

"And nobody but myself will know that May Webster put down her name and
scratched it out at my request," thought Paul, not a little proud of
his moral victory over the haughty young woman.

"Well, I think everything is safe here; we may be going home.  I want
to get back before my little Kitty gets news of the fire, or she will
worry herself into a fever.  Late as it is, though, I must run up to
the Court."

"Why?" Paul inquired.  "We know that Miss Webster is safe."

"She might wish to see me," replied the rector, simply.  "And if she
does, she shall have the chance."

"Then I'll leave word at the rectory that you are all right, in case
Kitty is awake," said Paul, rather shortly.

May, from her couch in her dressing-room heard the rector's cheery
voice in the hall below asking after her.

"That's Mr. Curzon, Lancaster; run and ask him to come up and see me
for a moment," she said to her maid.

In another moment he entered, followed by her mother.

"Oh, my darling, you are not ill?  Have you been burned and not told me
of it?" she gasped in terror.

"Oh no, mother," said May, trying to smile; "but it's just because I'm
not burned, nor scared, nor horrible to look at, that I want Mr.
Curzon.  I want--I want----"  And then May's high courage gave way, and
she burst into tears.

"Let us pray," said the rector, quietly.  And he and May's mother knelt
down by the side of May's couch together.

When he rose up from his knees May's tears had ceased.




CHAPTER VII.

A MOMENTOUS DECISION.

The rector walked home through the starlight night with a thankful
heart.  It was possibly his sanguine temperament, backed by his strong
faith in the Christ Who must reign until He had brought all to His
Feet, that gave him such large success in his work; and against the
background of this day two special subjects for thanksgiving stood out
in strong relief: first, that he had received positive proof that he
possessed the confidence of the majority of his parishioners; and
secondly, that an accident--a deliverance from what might have been a
horrible death--had given him an insight into the deeper side of May
Webster's character.  That she had this deeper side he had been fully
assured, but hitherto he had been powerless to touch it.

To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the
gratitude which she felt to God.  For a moment the spiritual life that
was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a
deeper, truer, more lasting friendship had been laid--a friendship that
might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her
road to Heaven.

Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission
is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care.
He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its
special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as
frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the
sick, or the unhappy.

It was of May and her needs that his heart was full as he turned from
the drive into the road, but as he did so he stumbled against a man's
figure propped against the gate-post.  The man lurched heavily forward,
and would have fallen had not Mr. Curzon caught him in his arms,
peering at the same time into his face to see who it might be.

"Tom!  Tom Burney!  Poor lad," he exclaimed, with a heavy sigh, for the
mere touch of the inert body showed that Tom was not overcome by
illness but by drink.

"Tom!" said the rector, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders,
"rouse yourself, and get home to bed.  To-morrow we will talk this
over, but you are in no fit state to listen to-night."

The familiar voice roused the muddled brain to some sense of shame, and
instinctively Tom's hand was raised to his cap.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I won't go home; same roof shan't cover that
beast Dixon and me!"

The words reminded Mr. Curzon that Dixon, Burney, and several other men
employed at the Court were lodged in rooms over the coach-house and
stables; evidently Tom and Dixon had quarrelled.

"That's sheer nonsense!" he answered sharply.  "I'm not going to leave
you out here all night, for the sake of your own character.  If you
won't go without me, I shall take you."

Tom made some show of sullen resistance, but a sober man always has the
advantage over a tipsy one; and Mr. Curzon was physically so strong
that, drunk as Tom was, he knew he could enforce obedience.  Once more,
therefore, the rector had to retrace his steps, and half supported,
half led, he presently landed Tom Burney in the stable-yard of the
Court.  A light burning in one of the upper windows showed him that
somebody was still awake, and a whistle readily attracted the attention
of the occupant.  The window was thrown wide and a head thrust out into
the night.

"So it's you, is it?" said a voice, that the rector recognized as
Dixon's.  "It would serve you right to keep you out there all night."

"You hound! you mean hound!" hiccoughed Tom, trying to wrest himself
from the strong restraining hand laid upon his collar.  "If only I can
get at you, I'll----"

The threat was nipped in the bud by the rector.  "Is that you, Dixon?"
he asked, in a low, authoritative tones.  "Just come down and open the
door, please.  I found Burney like this, and brought him home; and keep
out of sight, will you?  I've no intention of being landed in a
quarrel."

There was a smothered exclamation of surprise, the window was closed,
and, in another moment, the lower door was thrown wide to admit the
rector and his charge.  By a rapid signal Mr. Curzon directed Dixon to
conceal himself in an angle of the staircase, whilst he gave Tom a
helping hand up the staircase to the room which Dixon indicated with a
nod.  Once safely inside, he placed him on the bed and came away,
closing the door behind him.

"He won't come out again to-night, I think," he said to Dixon, who
followed him to the door.

"Oh no, sir; I'll see to that," replied the man, with a rather
unpleasant smile.  "I'll turn the key on him, and unlock the door again
before he wakes in the morning.  I'm sorry you've had all this trouble.
I tried my best to get him to come along quietly with me, but I had to
leave him to himself at last; he was so desperate quarrelsome.  He's a
quick temper at any time, and he's just mad when he's drunk."

"Which has not been very often, I think," interposed the rector.  "But
in the last few months, I fear he has fallen into bad company.  Good
night, Dixon."

"We shan't hear the end of this in a hurry.  What business has he
prowling about the place at this time of night, I should like to know?"
grumbled Dixon aloud, as he closed the door.  "Bad company, indeed!
He'll see for himself that I'm not drunk, whatever that fool Tom may
be."

Meanwhile the rector pursued his way home in less joyful mood than
before he had stumbled across poor Tom Burney; he was sorely troubled
about him as, for a long time, he had been one of the most promising
young fellows in the place.  He let himself quietly into the rectory,
shading the light with his hand as he passed the door of Kitty's room;
but a half-stifled cry of "Daddy!" arrested his steps.  He pushed open
the door and entered, crossing with swift, light tread to her bedside.
The frightened look in the child's eyes died away as she looked into
the smiling face.

"What does my little Kitty mean by lying awake to this hour?"

"I've been frightened, daddy.  I lay awake on purpose, at first,
because you promised to come and kiss me when you came home after the
meeting."

"Oh, I shan't promise that any more if it keeps you awake.  Well!"

"And then I heard Mr. Paul's voice down in the hall, and I thought he
said something about fire.  But Nurse said I was silly, and must go to
sleep; but I couldn't till I knew you were safe."

"What from, little one?"

"The fire," said Kitty, with a suppressed sob.  "I thought you might be
burned, and nobody would tell me."

"Well, that was very silly, certainly," said her father, with a little
laugh that had a singularly reassuring effect upon Kitty.

"And I tried to think of the three men with long names that the fire
did not hurt; but it did not do me a bit of good, daddy."

"Because you forgot about the fourth one who stood by them, even in the
fire, whose form was like the Son of God," said the rector, gently.
"And He was close by you, Kitty, although you were so frightened--by
you, and me too.  There! think of that and go to sleep now."

But though Mr. Curzon spoke so cheerfully, there were tears in his eyes
as he kissed his little daughter and tucked her into bed with strong,
gentle hands.

"Poor little soul!  She's bound to suffer, with her crippled body and
over-sensitive brain," he thought.

The next morning at breakfast he told Kitty the story of the previous
evening, quite simply, without any terrifying details.

"I should think Mr. Paul is very brave--almost as brave as you are,
daddy," said Kitty, whose terror seemed to have vanished into thin air
with the light of day.

"Much braver, I expect," agreed her father, good-humouredly.  "But I
wonder why you think so!"

"Oh, Sally has told me lots of things.  How he killed a mad dog, and
nursed a man with smallpox, and knocked down a costermonger for kicking
his pony.  That was brave, wasn't it?" said Kitty, who clearly regarded
the last item as the crowning act of bravery.

"Well, it was speedy punishment, certainly," answered her father,
laughing.  "But since you admire bravery so much, you'll have to learn
a little more about it yourself; and not lie awake every time I'm kept
out late at night.  A clergyman's work is like a doctor's--never done,
you know."

The word doctor gave Kitty an opportunity of rapidly changing the
subject.

"What's a stroke, father?  What's good for it?"

"A 'stroke' generally means paralysis, in some form or other, which
affects people's limbs--often making them useless."

"Like my legs?" asked Kitty, quickly.

Her father winced palpably.  "Not just like that, darling; I wonder
what you are thinking of?"

"Mr. Allison's mother.  She's very old and very deaf; and now she's had
a stroke.  I heard some one tell Nurse so; and, of course, I must go
and ask about her when I go out; but I can't tell what to take her."

"I should think beef-tea will be the kind of thing she needs.  Nurse
can say we will make her some if you like," said the rector, who always
humoured Kitty's fancy for taking sick people especially under her wing.

The day was a full one, and it was late in the afternoon before he
found himself rapping at the door of the house which adjoined the forge.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Allison, in answer to his inquiry about her
mother-in-law; "she's a bit tired to-day, though going on as well as we
could hope.  She's had a visitor this afternoon," with a glance round
at the chimney-corner from which Sally Lessing's tall, girlish figure
emerged rather shyly; "and if you did not mind looking in rather
earlier to-morrow she'd be ready to see you."

"Very good," said the rector.  "If you'll name the time, I'll be here.
Miss Lessing, our way home lies in the same direction.  Shall we walk
together?"

No excuse presented itself for refusing Mr. Curzon's offer, though a
_tete-a-tete_ with the rector was not much to her taste--especially as
her brother was a little sore about his last night's defeat.

"How are you taking to the life down here?  Do you like it?" he asked,
as they started off together.

"I don't quite know," Sally said with a frank smile.  "At first it was
delightful--a new experience,--but the novelty is wearing off.  And
Paul said this morning that we were both of us fish out of water; that
he must stay here, at any rate for the present, but that I might please
myself."

"And what particular pond do you want to swim in?"

"London.  And that's not to be described as a pond, is it? but rather a
great, strong river.  You see, down here, there is literally nothing to
do."

"Plenty, if you choose to do it," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly.

Sally shook her head.  "You would only want workers of your own way of
thinking."

"I should prefer them, certainly; if by _my_ way of thinking you mean
the Church to which I belong--to which you belong also, I expect."

"Only by name.  I was baptized, but I've not been brought up on church
lines.  I've been allowed to think for myself, and judge the truth for
myself.  Paul says that that is the only truth worth believing."

"It still leaves you finally dependent on other people's judgment, does
it not?  In your case, I should say, your views unconsciously are
moulded entirely by your brother."

"But it is so with every one more or less!" retorted Sally, quickly.
"You've got your ideas, either from the people who have influenced you
the most, or the books you have read."

"Quite so.  The books that have influenced me most largely are those
contained in the Bible; but the only person upon whose judgment and
character I find I can wholly rely, is the Lord Himself.  An
old-fashioned belief, you will say, but I find it practically true."

"But Paul says the only facts based on history in the Gospels are that
Christ lived and died a martyr to his opinions," said Sally.

"So many men say nowadays.  If so, it is curious that faith in the Name
of a Jew who died nearly two thousand years ago, is still able to work
moral miracles in hundreds and thousands of lives in the present day;
that men and women, tied and bound with the chain of their sins,
looking to Him and asking help, can rise and walk in the glorious
liberty of the sons of God.  When I see that, as, thank God, I have
seen it, I feel I have a reason for the faith that is in me, that Jesus
is, as He claims to be, the Son of God; that it was no idle boast on
His part that He would give His Spirit to those that seek it."

Sally caught her breath.  There was no doubting the sincerity of the
speaker, but the very simplicity of the teaching was an argument
against accepting it.

"Well, of course, you as a clergyman have to do with people's morals,"
she said hurriedly; "but the bodily wretchedness and misery of hundreds
and thousands of people in London and other big places appeals more to
me.  I feel it's not a bit of good telling them to be good in this
world, and they will be happy in the next, whilst they have bad houses
to live in, and bad food to eat, and insufficient wages, and never a
ray of brightness in their lives.  To stay down here and potter about
amongst a few children and sick people seems such a small thing to do,
when one might help to set any one of these great wrongs right."

She pulled herself up, and broke into a peal of laughter.

"I'm talking of things that I dare say you will think I don't
understand," she said; "but Paul has interested me in them, and I had
thought, if I went on studying, I might some day work and speak about
them.  Lots of women do."

"And why not?  One of the best speakers I ever heard was a woman."

"I thought you would be sure to hate the notion."

"Why should I, unless----"

"Unless what?"

"You should speak any word against the Master whom I serve," said the
rector.  "On philanthropic subjects I could go with you heart and soul."

"I would not speak on a subject of which I know nothing," said Sally,
eagerly.  "I've told you that I am only a seeker after truth, picking
up a scrap here and there as I can find it."

"And you will reach the truth after a time," said Mr. Curzon, holding
out his hand, "if you are ready to acknowledge a Power higher than
yourself, to Whom you may safely appeal to guide you to all truth.
Without that, you will grope along in the darkness."

Before Sally could answer he had gone.  Was there such a power she
wondered?  What rest and comfort such a conviction would bring with it.
She made no mention of her talk to the rector to Paul when he came in;
she shrank from his glib criticism of Mr. Curzon's simple declaration
of faith.

As Mr. Curzon walked home he caught sight of Tom Burney leaning over a
gate with his back turned towards the road.  The very poise of his
head, and droop of his shoulders, showed depression of body and mind;
and with intuitive sympathy Mr. Curzon stopped and laid a kindly hand
on his shoulder.

"The very man I was wanting!" he said cheerily.  "I thought you would
be sure to come and see me to-night."

For a moment Tom's dark, handsome eyes sought his; then dropped for
very shame.

"No, I wasn't," he said bluntly.  "But I'm glad to have the chance of
telling you that I've got the sack for what happened last night.  Dixon
took good care to report me; and I'm to leave at the end of this week."

"What is your quarrel with Dixon?"

There was a long pause.  "We're after the same girl," said Tom, a
little huskily; "and he don't care what he does as long as he can get
me out of the way.  He made me drunk last night."

"Oh no," replied Mr. Curzon, shortly; "you made yourself drunk.  Tell
the truth about it, Tom."

"Well, I'll tell you straight what happened.  We were all in the public
together----"

"You went there of your own free will, I suppose?"

"Yes.  I've been there plenty of times before, and never had a drop too
much," said Tom, rather resentfully, "and I was just going away last
night, when Dixon offered me another glass; and Allison laughed and
said, 'Don't you take it, young 'un; head ain't strong and temper too
short.'  And I told him I could drink against any man if I chose, and
keep my wits about me too; and Dixon said he'd stand treat, and see
whose head would last the longest, mine or Allison's----"

"With the result that I found you how and when I did, and you've lost
your place into the bargain.  Truly the wages of sin are hard,"
commented Mr. Curzon; "but I'm ready to help you, Tom, if you are
willing to help yourself, for I think, to a certain extent, you've been
hardly done by.  If you are sorry for what has happened