glad now I only employed the moral weapon. But he must come near me no more; I don’t like him; he irritates me; there is not even amusement to be had out of him. Malone is better sport.’

It seemed as if Malone wished to justify the preference, for the words were scarcely out of the speaker’s mouth, when Peter Augustus came up, all in ‘grande tenue,’ gloved and scented, with his hair oiled and brushed to perfection, and bearing in one hand a huge bunch of cabbage-roses, five or six in full blow: these he presented to the heiress with a grace to which the most cunning pencil could do but defective justice. And who, after this, could dare to say that Peter was not a lady’s man? He had gathered and he had given flowers; he had offered a sentimental—a poetic tribute at the shrine of Love or Mammon. Hercules holding the distaff was but a faint type of Peter bearing the roses. He must have thought this himself, for he seemed amazed at what he had done. He backed without a word; he was going away with a husky chuckle of self-felicitation; then he bethought himself to stop and turn, to ascertain by ocular testimony that he really had presented a bouquet. Yes—there were the six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a very white hand, with some gold rings on the fingers, slightly holding them together, and streaming ringlets, half hiding a laughing face, drooped over them; only half-hiding. Peter saw the laugh—it was unmistakable—he was made a joke of—his gallantry, his chivalry were the subject of a jest for a petticoat—for two petticoats—Miss Helstone, too, was smiling. Moreover, he felt he was seen through, and Peter grew black as a thunder-cloud. When Shirley looked up, a fell eye was fastened on her. Malone, at least, had energy enough in hate; she saw it in his glance.

‘Peter is worth a scene, and shall have it, if he likes, one day,’ she whispered to her friend.

And now, solemn and sombre as to their colour, though bland enough as to their faces, appeared at the dining-room door the three Rectors; they had hitherto been busy in the church, and were now coming to take some little refreshment for the body, ere the march commenced. The large morocco-covered easy-chair had been left vacant for Dr. Boultby; he was put into it, and Caroline, obeying the instigations of Shirley, who told her now was the time to play the hostess, hastened to hand to her uncle’s vast, revered, and, on the whole, worthy friend a glass of wine and a plate of macaroons. Boultby’s churchwardens, patrons of the Sunday-school both, as he insisted on their being, were already beside him; Mrs. Sykes and the other ladies of his congregation were on his right hand and on his left, expressing their hopes that he was not fatigued, their fears that the day would be too warm for him. Mrs. Boultby, who held an opinion that when her lord dropped asleep after a good dinner his face became as the face of an angel, was bending over him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or imaginary, from his brow. Boultby, in short, was in his glory, and in a round sound ‘voix de poitrine,’ he rumbled out thanks for attentions and assurances of his tolerable health. Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she came near, save to accept what she offered; he did not see her—he never did see her; he hardly knew that such a person existed. He saw the macaroons, however, and, being fond of sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof. The wine Mrs. Boultby insisted on mingling with hot water, and qualifying with sugar and nutmeg.

Mr. Hall stood near an open window, breathing the fresh air and scent of flowers, and talking like a brother to Miss Ainley. To him Caroline turned her attention with pleasure. ‘What should she bring him? He must not help himself—he must be served by her’; and she provided herself with a little salver, that she might offer him variety. Margaret Hall joined them; so did Miss Keeldar. The four ladies stood round their favourite pastor; they also had an idea that they looked on the face of an earthly angel. Cyril Hall was their pope, infallible to them as Dr. Thomas Boultby to his admirers. A throng, too, enclosed the Rector of Briarfield; twenty or more pressed round him, and no parson was ever more potent in a circle than old Helstone. The curates, herding together after their manner, made a constellation of three lesser planets; divers young ladies watched them afar off, but ventured not nigh.

Mr. Helstone produced his watch. ‘Ten minutes to two,’ he announced aloud. ‘Time for all to fall into line. Come.’ He seized his shovel-hat and marched away; all rose and followed en masse.