porch of the old rectory the new rector turned to him and shyly, yet with real feeling, besought his help and advice in the work before him. The young clergyman, commonly so self-confident, was moved, and moved deeply, by the evening light, by the dark forms of the yew trees, and his own strange and solemn position. Stephen Clode's answer was in the affirmative-it could hardly have been other; and it was spoken becomingly, if a little coldly, in view of the rector's advances. But, even while the curate spoke it, he was considering how he might best escape from Claversham. Still his Yea, yea, comforted his companion and lightened his momentary apprehensions.

Nor was the curate, when he had recovered from the first shock of surprise and disgust, so foolish as to betray his feelings by wanton churlishness. He parted from his companion at the door, leaving him to the welcome of Mrs. Baxter, the rector's London housekeeper, who had come down two days before; but at the same time he consented readily to return at half-past six and share his dinner, and give him in the course of the meal all the information in his power.

Left to himself, the rector went over the house under Mrs. Baxter's guidance, and, as he trod the polished floors, could not but feel some accession of self-importance. The panelled hall, with its wide oak staircase, fed this, and the spacious sombrely furnished library, with its books and busts, its antique clock and one good engraving, and its lofty windows opening upon the garden. So, in a less degree, did the long oak-panelled dining-room, and a smaller sitting-room which looked to the front and the churchyard; and the drawing-room, which was placed over the library, and seemed the larger because Mr. Williams had furnished it but scantily and lived in it less. Then there were six or seven bedrooms, and in the garden a stone basin and fountain. Altogether, when the rector descended after washing his hands, and stood on the library hearthrug looking about him, he would have been more than human if he had not with a feeling of thankfulness entertained also some faint sense of self-gratulation and personal desert. Nor, probably, would Mr. Clode have been human if, coming in and finding the younger man standing on that hearthrug, and betraying in his face and attitude something of his thoughts, he on his part had not felt a degree of envy and antagonism. The man was so prosperous, so self-contented, so conscious of his own merit and success.

But the curate was too wise to betray this feeling, and, laying

himself out to be pleasant, he had, before the little meal was over, so far ingratiated himself with his entertainer that the rector was greatly surprised when he presently learned that Clode had not been to a university. You astonish me,' he said. 'You have so completely the manner of a 'varsity man!'

The observation was a little too gracious, a little wanting in tact, but it would not have hurt the curate had he not been at the moment in a state of irritation. As it was, Clode treasured it up, and never got rid of the feeling that the Oxford man looked down upon him because he had been only at Wells; whereas, in fact, Lindo, though sufficiently prone to judge his fellows, had far too high an opinion of himself to be bound by such distinctions, but was just as likely to make a friend of a ploughboy, if he liked him, as of a Christchurch man. After that speech, however, the curate was more than ever resolved to go, and go quickly.

But, when dinner was over and he was about to take his leave, he happened to pick up, as he moved about the room, a small Prayer Book which Lindo had just unpacked, and which was lying on the writing-table. Clode idly looked into it as he talked, and, seeing on the flyleaf Reginald Lindo, 1850,' took occasion, when he had done with the subject in hand, to discuss it. Surely,' he said, holding it up, 'you did not possess this in 1850, Mr. Lindo!' 'Hardly,' the rector answered, laughing. 'I was not born until '54.'

"Then who did?'

6

'It was my uncle's,' the rector explained. I was his godson, and his name was mine also.'

Is he alive, may I ask?' the curate pursued, looking at the title-page as if he saw something curious there-though, indeed, what he saw was not new to him; only from it he had suddenly deduced a thought.

'No, he died about a year ago-nearly a year ago, I think,' Lindo answered carelessly, and without the least suspicion. He was always particularly kind to me, and I use that book a good deal. I must have it rebound.'

'Yes,' Clode said mechanically; it wants rebinding if you value it.'

'I shall have it done. And a lot of these books,' the rector continued, looking at old Mr. Williams's shelves, 'want their clothes renewing. I shall have them all looked to, I think.' He

had a pleasant sense that this was in his power. The cost of the furniture and library had made a hole in his private means, which were not very large; but that mattered little now. Eight hundred a year, paid quarterly, will bind a book or two.

Had the curate been attending, he would have read Lindo's thoughts with ease. But Clode was pursuing a train of reflections of his own, and so was spared this pang. Your uncle was an old man, I suppose,' he said. 'I think I observed in the Clergy List that he had been in orders about forty years.'

'Not quite so long as that,' Lindo replied. He was sixtyfour when he died. He had been Lord Dynmore's private tutor, you know, though they were almost of an age.'

'Indeed!' the curate rejoined, still with that thoughtful look on his face. You knew Lord Dynmore through him, I suppose, then, Mr. Lindo?"

'Well, I got the living through him, if that is what you mean,' Lindo said frankly. But I do not think that I ever met Lord Dynmore. Certainly I should not know him from Adam.'

'Ah!' said the curate, ah! indeed!' He smiled as he gazed darkly into the fire, and stroked his chin. In the other's place, he thought, he would have been more reticent. He would not have disclaimed, though he might not have claimed, acquaintance with Lord Dynmore. He would have left the thing shadowy, to be defined by others as they pleased. Thinking thus, he got up somewhat abruptly, and wished Lindo good-night. A cool observer, indeed, might have noticed-but the rector did not-a change in his manner as he did so a little accession of familiarity, which seemed not far removed from a delicate kind of contempt. The change was subtle, but one thing was certain. Stephen Clode had no longer any intention of leaving Claversham in a hurry. That resolve was gone.

Once out of the house, he walked as if he had business. He passed quickly from the churchyard by a narrow lane leading to an irregular open space quaintly called 'The Top of the Town.' Here were his own lodgings on the first-floor over a stationer's; but he did not enter them. Instead, he strode on towards the farther and darker side of the square, where were no buildings, but a belt of tall trees stood up, gaunt and rustling in the night wind, above a line of wall. Through the trees the lights of a large house were visible. He walked up the avenue which led to the door and, ringing loudly, was at once admitted.

The sound of his summons came pleasantly to the ears of two ladies who had been for some time placidly expecting it. They were seated in a small but charming room filled with soft shaded light and warmth and colour, an open piano and dainty pictures and china, and a well-littered writing-table all contributing to the air of accustomed luxury which pervaded it. The elder ladythat Mrs. Hammond whom we saw talking to the curate on the day of the old rector's funeral-looked up expectantly as Mr. Clode entered and, extending to him a podgy white hand covered with rings, began to chide him in a rich full voice for being so late. 'I have been dying,' she said cheerfully, 'to hear what is the fate before us, Mr. Clode. What is he like?'

'Well,' he answered, taking with a word of thanks the cup of tea which Laura offered him, 'I have one surprise in store for you. He is comparatively young.'

'Sixty?' said Mrs. Hammond interrogatively.

'Forty?' said Laura, raising her eyebrows.

'No,' Clode replied, smiling and stirring his tea, you must guess again. He is twenty-six.'

'Twenty-six! You are joking,' exclaimed the elder lady. While Laura opened her eyes very wide, but said nothing yet.

'No,' said the curate, I am not. He told me himself that he was not born until 1854.'

The two ladies were loud in their surprise then, while for a moment the curate sipped his tea in silence. The brass kettle hissed and bubbled on the hob. The tea-set twinkled cheerfully on the wicker table, and faint scents of flowers and fabrics filled the room with an atmosphere which he had long come to associate with Laura. It was Laura Hammond, indeed, who had introduced him to this new world. The son of an accountant living in a small Lincolnshire town, he owed his clerical profession to his mother's ardent wish that he should rise in the world. His father was not wealthy, and, before he came as curate to Claversham, Mr. Clode had had no experience of society. Then, alighting on a sudden in the midst of much such a small town as his native place, he found himself astonishingly transmogrified into a person of social importance. He found every door open to him, and among them the Hammonds', who were admitted to be the first people in the town. He fell in easily enough with the new learning,' but the central figure in the novel pleasant world of refinement continued throughout to be Laura Hammond.

Much petting had somewhat spoiled him, and it annoyed him now, as he sat sipping his tea, to observe that the ladies were far from displeased with his tidings. If he is a young man, he is sure not to be evangelical,' said Mrs. Hammond decisively. That is well. That is a comfort, at any rate.'

'He will play tennis, too, I dare say,' said Laura.

6

'And Mr. Bonamy will be kept in some order now,' Mrs. Hammond continued. Not that I am blaming you, Mr. Clode,' she added graciously—indeed, the curate was a favourite with her—but in your position you could do nothing with a man so impracticable.'

'He really will be an acquisition,' cried Laura gleefully, her brown eyes shining in the firelight. And she made her tiny lace handkerchief into a ball and flung it up-and did not catch it, for, with all her talk of lawn-tennis, she was no great player. Her rôle lay rather in the drawing-room. She was as fond of comfort as a cat, and loved the fire with the love of a dog, and was, in a word, pre-eminently feminine, delighting to surround herself with all such things as tended to set off this side of her nature. But now,' she continued briskly, when the curate had recovered her handkerchief for her, 'tell me what you think of him. Is he nice?'

Certainly, I should say so,' the curate answered, smiling.

But, though he smiled, he became silent again. He was reflecting with carefully hidden bitterness that Lindo would not only override him in the parish, but would be his rival in the particular inner clique which he affected-perhaps his rival with Laura. The thought awoke the worse nature of the man. Up to this time, though he had not been true, though he had kept back at Claversham details of his past history which a frank man would have avowed, though in the process of assimilating himself to his new surroundings he had been over-pliant, he had not been guilty of any baseness which had seemed to him a baseness, which had outraged his own conscience. But, as he reflected on the wrong which this young stranger was threatening to do him, he felt himself capable of much.

'Mrs. Hammond,' he said suddenly, may I ask if you have destroyed Lord Dynmore's letter which you showed me last week?' 'Destroyed Lord Dynmore's letter!' Laura answered, speaking for her mother in a tone of comic surprise. 'Do you think, sir, that we get peers' autographs every day of the week?'