Next day at Badsworth Hall, a stately luncheon was in progress. Luncheon, or indeed any meal, partaken of under the rolling and excitable eye of Sir Morton Pippitt, was always a function fraught with considerable embarrassment to any guests who might happen to be present, being frequently assisted by the Shakespearean stage direction 'alarums and excursions.' With Sir Morton at the head of the table, and the acid personality of his daughter Miss Tabitha at the foot, there was very little chance of more than merely monosyllabic conversation, while any idea of merriment, geniality or social interchange of thought, withered in conception and never came to birth. The attention of both host and hostess was chiefly concentrated on the actual or possible delinquencies of the servants in attendance—and what with Sir Morton's fierce nods and becks to unhappy footmen, and Miss Tabitha's freezing menace of brow bent warningly against the butler, those who, as visitors, were outside these privacies of the domestic circle, never felt altogether at their ease. But the fact that other people were made uncomfortable by his chronic irascibility moved Sir Morton not at all, so long as he personally could enjoy himself in his own fashion, which was to browbeat, bully and swear at every hapless household retainer that came across his path in the course of the day. He was more than usually choleric and fussy in the 'distinguished' presence of Lord Roxmouth, for though that individual had gone the social pace very thoroughly, and was, to put it mildly, a black sheep of modern decadence, hopelessly past all regeneration, he still presented the exterior appearances of a gentleman, and was careful to maintain that imperturbable composure of mien, dignity of bearing, and unruffled temper which indicate breeding, though they are far from being evidences of sincerity. And thus it very naturally happened that in the companionship of the future Duke of Ormistoune, Sir Morton did not shine. His native vulgarity came out side by side with his childish pomposity, and Roxmouth, after studying his habits, customs and manners for two or three days, began to feel intensely bored and out of humour.

"Upon my word,"—he said, to his fidus Achates, Marius Longford,—"I am enduring a great deal for the sake of the Vancourt millions! To follow an erratic girl like Maryllia from one Continental resort to another was bad enough,-but to stay here in tame, highly respectable country dullness is a thousand times worse! Why on earth, my good fellow, could you not have found a more educated creature to play host to me than this terrible old Bone-Boiler?"

Longford pressed the tips of his fingers together with a deprecatory gesture.

"There was really no one else who could receive you,"—he answered, almost apologetically—"I thought I had managed the affair rather well. You will remember that directly Miss Vancourt had announced to her aunt her intention to return to her own home, you sent me down here to investigate the place and its surroundings, and see what I could do. Sir Morton Pippitt seemed to be the only person, from the general bent of his character, to suit your aims, and his house was, (before he had it) of very excellent historic renown. I felt sure you would be able to use him. There is no other large place in the neighbourhood except Miss Vancourt's own Manor, and Ittlethwaite Park—I doubt whether you could have employed the Ittlethwaites to much purpose—-"

"Spare me the suggestion!" yawned Roxmouth—"I should not have tried!"

"Well, there is no one else of suitable position, or indeed of sufficient wealth to entertain you,"—continued Longford—"Unless you had wished me to fraternise with the brewer, Mordaunt Appleby? HE certainly might have been useful! oj He would sell his soul to a title!"

Roxmouth gave an exclamation of mingled contempt and impatience, and dropped the conversation. But he was intensely weary of Sir Morton's 'fine jovial personality'—he hated his red face, his white hair, his stout body, his servile obsequiousness to rank, and all his 'darling old man' ways. Darling old man he might be, but he was unquestionably a dull old man as well. So much so, indeed, that when at luncheon on the day now named, his lordship Roxmouth, as Mr. Netlips would have styled him, was in a somewhat petulant mood, being tired of the constant scolding of the servants that went on around him, and being likewise moved to a sort of loathing repulsion at the contemplation of Miss Tabitha's waxy-clean face lined with wrinkles, and bordered by sternly smooth grey hair. He was lazily wondering to himself whether she had ever been young—whether the same waxy face, wrinkles and grey hair had not adorned her in her very cradle,—when the appearance of an evidently highly nervous boy in buttons, carrying a letter towards his host on a silver salver, distracted his attention.

"What's this—what's this?" spluttered Sir Morton, hastily dropping a fork full of peas which he had been in the act of conveying to his mouth—"What are you bringing notes in here for, eh? Haven't I told you I won't have my meals disturbed by messages and parcels? What d'ye mean by it? Take it away—take it away!—No!—here!—stop a minute, stop a minute! Yes—yes!—I see!—marked 'immediate,' and from Abbot's Manor. My dear lord!"—And here he raised his voice to a rich warble-"I believe this will concern you more than me—ha-ha- ha!—yes, yes! we know a thing or two! 'When a woman will, she will, you may depend on't!'—never mind the other line!—never mind, never mind!" And he broke open the seal of the missive presented to him, and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles to read its contents. "Eh— what's this—what's this? God bless my soul!" And his round eyes protruded in astonishment and dismay—"Look here!—I say—really! You'd better read this, my lord! God bless my soul! She's bolted!"

Roxmouth started violently. Mr. Marius Longford looked up sharply— and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork with the regular old maid's triumphant air of 'I told you so!'

"God bless my soul!" said Sir Morton again—"Was ever such a bit of damned cheek!—beg pardon, my lord!—-"

"Don't apologise!" said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, "At least, not to ME! To Miss Tabitha!" and he waved his hand expressively. "May I see the letter?"

"Certainly—certainly!" and Sir Morton in a great fluster passed it along. It was a very brief note and ran as follows:

"DEAR SIR MORTON,—I quite forgot to tell you, when you and your friends dined with me the other day, that I am leaving home immediately and shall be away for the rest of the summer. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby are staying on at the Manor for a fortnight or three weeks, as the country air does them so much good. It will be very kind if you and Lord Roxmouth will call and see them as often as you can,—they are such dear kind people!—and I am sure Miss Tabitha will be glad to have them near her as she already likes them so much. Anything you can do to give them pleasure while they are here, will be esteemed as a personal favour to myself. I am sorry not to have the time to call and say good-bye—but I am sure you will excuse ceremony. I shall have left before you receive this note.—With kind regards, sincerely yours," "MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

Roxmouth read this letter, first to himself, and then aloud to all at table. For a moment there was a silence of absolute stupefaction.

"Then she's gone!" at last said Miss Tabitha, placidly nodding, while the suspicion of a malign smile crept round the hard corners of her mouth.

"Evidently!" And Roxmouth crumbled the bread beside his plate into fine shreds with a nervous, not to say vicious clench of his hand.

He was inwardly furious. There is nothing so irritating to a man of his type as to be made ridiculous. Maryllia had done this. In the most trifling, casual, and ordinary way she had compelled him to look like a fool. All his carefully laid plans were completely upset, and he fancied that even Longford, his tool, to whom he had freely confided his wishes and intentions, was secretly laughing at him. To have plotted and contrived a stay at Badsworth Hall with the blusterous Pippitt in order to have the opportunity of crossing Maryllia's path at every turn, and compromising her name with his in her own house and county, and then to find himself 'left,' with the civil suggestion that he should 'call and see' the antique Sisters Gemini, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, was somewhat too much for his patience. The blow was totally unexpected,—the open slight to his amour propre sudden and keen. His very blood tingled under the lash of Maryllia's disdain—she had carried a point against him, and he almost imagined he could hear the distant echo of her light mocking laughter. His brow reddened,—he gnawed his under-lip angrily, and sat mute, aware that he had been tricked and foiled.

Longford watched him narrowly and with something of dismay,—for if this lordly patron, who, by his position alone, was able to push things on in certain quarters of the press, were to suddenly turn crusty and unreasonable, where would his, Longford's, 'great literary light' be? Quenched utterly like a rush-light in a gale! Sir Morton Pippitt during the uncomfortable pause of silence had grown purple with suppressed excitement. He knew perfectly well,— because he had consented to it,—that his house had only been 'used' for Roxmouth's purposes, and that he, personally, was of no more consideration to a man like the future Duke of Ormistoune than a landlord for the time being, whose little reckoning for entertainment would in due course be settled in some polite and ceremonious fashion. And he realised dolefully that his 'distinguished' guest might, and probably would, soon take his departure from Badsworth Hall, that abode no longer being of any service to him. This meant annihilation to many of Sir Morton's fondest hopes. He had set his heart on appearing at sundry garden- parties in the neighbourhood during the summer with Lord Roxmouth under his portly wing—he had meant to hurl Lord Roxmouth here, Lord Roxmouth there at all the less 'distinguished' people around him, so that they should almost sink into the dust with shame because they had not had the honour of sheltering his lordship within their walls,—and he had expected to add considerably to his own importance by 'helping on' the desired union between Roxmouth Castle and the Vaneourt millions. Now this dream was over, and he could willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else that came handy at the very name of Maryllia for her 'impudence' as he called it, in leaving them all in the lurch.

"It will be quite easy to ascertain where she has gone,"—said
Marius Longford presently, in soft conciliatory accents—"Lady
Wicketts will probably know, and Miss Fosby—-"

"Damn Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby!" snapped out Sir Morton, this time without any apology—"A couple of female donkeys! 'Kind of me to call upon them!' God bless my soul! I should think it WOULD be kind! Nobody but a fool would go near them—-"

"They are very pleasant, good women,"—said Miss Tabitha with severe serenity—"Personally, I much prefer them to Miss Vancourt."

Sir Morton snorted contempt; Mr. Longford coughed discreetly.

"Miss Vancourt has not yet ripened sufficiently to bear comparison with Lady Wicketts,"—he said, smoothly—"or with Miss Fosby. But I think, Miss Pippitt, there is a great deal in what you say!" Miss Tabitha bowed, and smiled a vinegary smile. "Lady Wicketts has a fine mind—very fine! Her husband, Sir Thomas—-"

"Oh never mind her husband!" blustered Sir Morton,—

"He's dead. And a good job too—for himself. Now what's to be done, my dear lord, eh?—what's to be done?"

Roxmouth looked up and managed to force his usual conventional smile.

"Nothing!"

"Nothing? Oh come, come! That won't do! Paint heart never won fair lady—ha-ha-ha! God bless my soul! The course of true love never did run smooth—that's the advice of what's-his-name—Shakespeare. Ha- ha! By the bye, what's become of that poet acquaintance of yours, Longford? Oughtn't HE to have known something about this? Didn't you tell him to keep a sharp look-out on Maryllia Van, eh?"

Longford reddened slightly under his pale yellow skin. What a vulgar way Sir Morton had of putting things, to be sure!

"I certainly asked Mr. Adderley to let us know if there was anything in which we could possibly participate to give pleasure and entertainment to Miss Vancourt,"—he answered frigidly—"He seems to have ingratiated himself with both Miss Vancourt and her young friend Miss Bourne—I should have thought he would have been told of their intending departure."

"You may depend he knows all about it!" said Sir Mortou—"He's double-faced, that's what he is! Poets always are. I hate 'em! Regular sneaks!—always something queer about their morals—look at Byron!—God bless my soul!—he ought to have been locked up— positively locked up, he-ha-ha! We'll come down on this Adderley— we'll take him by surprise and cross-examine him—we'll ask him why the devil he has played a double game—-"

"Pray do not think of such a thing!"—interrupted Roxmouth, quietly-
-"I really doubt whether he knows any more than we do. Maryllia—
Miss Vancourt—is not of a character to confide her movements, even
to a friend,—she has always been reticent—-" He paused.

"And sly!"—said Miss Tabitha, finishing his sentence for him, "Very sly! The first time I ever saw Miss Vancourt I knew she was deceitful! Her very look expresses it!"

"I'm afraid,"—murmured Roxmouth,—and then hesitating a moment, he raised his eyes with an affectation of great frankness—"I'm really afraid you may be right, Miss Tabitha! I had hoped that I should not have had to speak of a matter,—a very disagreeable matter which happened the other night—but, under the circumstances, it may be as well to mention it. You can perhaps imagine how distressing it has been to me—distressing and painful—and indeed incredible,—to discover the lady whom I have every right to consider almost my promised wife, entering into a kind of amorous entanglement down here with a clergyman!"

Sir Morton bounced in his chair.

"God bless my soul! A clergyman?"

"A clergyman?" echoed Miss Tabitha, with sudden sharpness in her tone—"What clergyman do you mean?"

"Who should I mean!" And Roxmouth affected a somewhat sad and forbearing demeanour—"There is only one who appears to be welcome at the Manor-the Reverend John Walden."

Miss Tabitha turned a paler waxen yellow-Sir Morton shot forth a deep, dreadful and highly blasphemous oath.

"That prig?" he roared, with a bull-like loudness and fury—"That high-and-mighty piece of damned superior clerical wisdom? God bless my soul! There must be some mistake—-"

"Yes surely!"—murmured Miss Tabitha, feeling the clutch of a deadly spite and fear at her heart,—for was not Walden HER clergyman?—HER choice of a husband?—the man she had resolved to wed sooner or later, even if she had to wait till he was senile, and did not know what he was doing when led to the altar? "Mr. Walden is not a man who would be easily allured—-"

"Perhaps not,"—said Roxmouth, quietly—"But I can hardly refuse to accept the witness of my own eyes and ears." And, attended by an almost breathless silence on the part of his auditors, he related with an air of patient endurance and compassionate regret, his own account of the interview between Maryllia and Walden in the picture- gallery, exaggerating something here, introducing a suggestive insinuation there, suppressing the simplicity of the true facts, and inserting falsehood wherever convenient, till he had succeeded in placing Walden's good name at Miss Tabitha's cat-like mercy for her to rend and pounce upon to the utmost extent of her own jaundiced rage and jealous venom.

Nothing could equal or surpass Sir Morton's amazement and wrath as he listened to the narration. His eyes seemed to literally start out of his head,—his throat swelled visibly till a fat ridge of flesh lolled over the edge of his stiff shirt-collar, and he threw in various observations of his own with regard to Walden, such as 'Sniveling puppy!' 'Canting rascal!' 'Elderly humbug!' 'Sneaking upstart,' which were quite in accordance with his native good taste and refinement of speech. And when at last his stock of expletives became, for the time being, exhausted, and when Miss Tabitha's dumb viciousness had, like an invisible sculptor's chisel, carved sudden deep lines in her face as fitting accompaniments to the deepening malice of her thoughts, they all rose from the luncheon table and went their several ways in their several moods of disconcerted confusion, impotence and vexation, in search of fresh means to gain new and unexpected ends. Roxmouth, reluctantly yielding to the earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him into the village of St. Rest, and made enquiries at the post-office as to whether Miss Vancourt's sudden departure was known there, or whether any instructions had been left as to the forwarding of her letters. But the postmistress, Mrs. Tapple, breathing hard and curtseying profoundly to the 'future Dook' declared she ''adn't heard nothink,' and ''adn't 'ad no orders.' Miss Vancourt's letters and telegrams all went up to the Manor as usual. Whereupon, still guided by the astute Longford, Roxmouth so far obeyed Maryllia's parting suggestion as to go and 'kindly call' upon Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby at the Manor itself. The beautiful old house looked the same as usual; there were no shutters up, no blinds drawn, in any of the windows,—nothing indicated absence on the part of the reigning mistress of the fair domain; and even the dog Plato was comfortably snoozing according to daily custom, on the sun-baked flag-stones in the Tudor court. Primmins opened the door to them with his usual well-trained and imperturbable demeanour.

"Miss Vancourt is not at home?" began Roxmouth tentatively.

"Miss Vancourt has left for the Continent, my lord," replied
Primmins, sedately.

Longford exchanged a swift glance with his patron. The latter gave a slight, weary shrug of his shoulders.

"Miss Bourne."—began Longford then.

"Miss Bourne and Mr. Gigg have also left," said Primmins.

"I suppose Miss Vancourt went with them?"

"No, sir."

This was baffling.

"Lady Wicketts is staying here, I believe,"—murmured Roxmouth—"Can
I—er?"

"Her ladyship has the neuralgy and is lying down, my lord," and an acute observer might have noticed the tremor of a wink in Primmins' eye—"Miss Fosby is in the drawing-room."

With a profound sigh Roxmouth glanced at Longford. That gentleman smiled a superior smile.

"We should like to see Miss Fosby."

Primmins at once threw open the door more widely.

"This way, if you please!"

In another moment they were ushered into the presence of Miss Fosby, who, laying aside her embroidery, rose with punctilious ceremony to receive them.

"Lady Wicketts is not well,"—she said, in tenderly lachrymose accents—"Dear Lady Wicketts! She is always so good!—always thinking of other people and doing such kind things!—she fatigues herself, and she is so delicate—ah!—so very delicate! She is suffering from neuralgia, I am sorry to say!"

"Don't mention it,"—said Roxmouth, hastily—"We would not disturb her for the world! The fact is, we called to see Miss Vancourt—-"

"Yes?" queried Miss Fosby, gently, taking up her embroidery again, and carefully setting her needle into the petal of a rosebud she was designing—"Dear girl! She left here yesterday."

"Rather sudden, wasn't it?" said Longford.

Miss Fosby looked up placidly, and smiled. She had a touch of humour about her as well as much 'early Victorian' sentiment, and she was just now enjoying herself.

"I think not! Young women like change and travel. Maryllia has always been accustomed to go abroad in August. The first time Lady Wicketts and I ever met her, she was travelling with her aunt. Oh no, I don't think it is at all sudden!"

"Where has she gone?" asked Roxmouth, affecting as much ease and lightness of manner as he could in putting the question.

Miss Fosby smiled a little more.

"I really don't know,"—she replied, with civil mildness—"I fancy she has no settled plans at all. She has kindly allowed Lady Wicketts and myself the use of the Manor for three weeks."

"Till she returns?" suggested Longford.

This time Miss Fosby laughed.

"Oh no! When WE leave it, the Manor is to be shut up again for quite a long time—probably till next summer."

"Miss Bourne has gone with her friend, I suppose?" "No,"—and Miss Fosby sought carefully among her embroidery silks for some special tint of colour—"Little Cicely and Monsieur Gigue, her master, went away together only this morning."

"Well, I suppose Miss Vancourt's letters will he forwarded on somewhere!"—said Eoxmouth, unguardedly. Miss Fosby's back stiffened instantly.

"Really, my lord, I know nothing about that,"—she said, primly— "Nor should I even make it my business to enquire." There was an awkward pause after this, and though Longford skilfully changed the subject of conversation to generalities, the rest of the interview was fraught with considerable embarrassment. Miss Fosby was not to be 'drawn.' She was distinctly 'old-fashioned,'—needless therefore to add that she was absolutely loyal to her absent friend and hostess.

Leaving the Manor, Lord Roxmouth and his tame pussy sought for information in other quarters with equal futility. The agent, Mr. Stanways, 'knew nothing.' His orders were to communicate all his business to Miss Vancourt's solicitors in London. Finally the last hope failed them in Julian Adderley. They found that young gentleman as much taken aback as themselves by the news of Maryllia'a departure. He had been told nothing of it. A note from Cicely Bourne had been brought to him that morning by one of the gardeners at the Manor—and he showed this missive to both Roxmouth and Longford with perfect frankness. It merely ran: "Goodbye Moon-calf! Am going away. No time to see you for a fond farewell! Hope you will be famous before I come back. Enclosed herewith is my music to your 'Little Eose Tree,' GOBLIN."

This, with the accompanying manuscript score of the song alluded to was all the information Julian could supply,—and his own surprise and consternation at the abrupt and unexpected termination of his pleasant visits to the Manor, were too genuine to be doubted.

"It is positively remote!" he said, staring vaguely at his visitors-
-"Too remote for realisation! Mr. Walden has gone away too."

Roxmouth started.

"Mr. Walden?"

"Yes." And Julian looked surprised at the other's hasty tone,—"But only to see his Bishop. He will preach here as usual on Sunday."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Longford, sharply scanning Julian's flabby face, green-grey eyes and ruddy locks with sudden suspicion— "Or is it only a blind?"

"A blind?" And Adderley lifted his shoulders to the lobes of his ears and spread out his hands in flat amazement,—"What do you mean, most obscure Marius? For what purpose should a blind be used? Mr. Walden is the last person in the world to wish to cover his intentions, or disguise his motives. He is the sincerest man I ever met!"

Longford glanced at his patron for instructions. Was Adderley to be told of the 'amorous entanglement' of Miss Vancourt? Roxmouth frowned at him warningly, and he understood his cue.

"Well, if you hear any news from the Manor, you can let us know,"— he said—"You are quite aware of the position—-"

"Quite!" murmured Julian, lazily.

"And if you want to get on, you will hardly find a better friend than Lord Roxmouth,"—pursued Longford, with meaning emphasis—"He has made many a man famous!"

"Oh, my dear Longford!-pray do not speak of these things!"— interrupted Roxmouth, with an air of gentlemanly humility. "Merit always commands my interest and attention—and Mr. Adderley's talent as a poet—naturally—!" Here he waved his hand and allowed the sentence to finish itself.

Julian looked at him thoughtfully.

"Thanks! I THINK I see what you mean!"—he said slowly—"But I'm afraid I am not a useful person. I never have been useful in my life—neither to myself, nor to anybody else. To be useful would be new—and in some cases, fresh,"—here he smiled dubiously—"Yes— very fresh!—and delightful! But I fear—I very much fear that I shall always 'lack advancement' as Hamlet says—I can never accommodate myself to other people's plans. You will excuse my inabilities?"

Roxmouth flushed angrily. He understood. So did Marius Longford— resolving in his own mind that whenever, IF ever, a book of poems appeared by Julian Adderley, he would so maul and pounce upon it in the critical reviews, that there should not be a line of it left unmangled or alive. They parted with him, however, on apparently excellent terms.

Returning to Badsworth Hall they found no further news awaiting them than they had themselves been able to obtain. Sir Morton's fussy enquiries had brought no result—Miss Tabitha had scoured the neighbourhood in her high dogcart, calling on the Ittlethwaites and Mandeville Porehams, all in vain. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had heard anything. The sudden exit of Maryllia from the scene took everyone by surprise. And when Miss Pippitt began to hiss a scandalous whisper concerning John Walden, and a possible intrigue between him and the Lady of the Manor, the 'county' sat up amazed. Here indeed was food for gossip! Here was material for 'local' excitement!

"Old Tabitha's jealous!—that's what it is!" said Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, to his maiden sisters,—"Ha-ha-ha! Old green- and-yellow Tabitha is afraid she'll lose her pet parson! Dammit! A pretty woman always starts this kind of nonsense. If it wasn't the clergyman, it would be somebody else—perhaps Sir Morton himself—or perhaps me! Ha-ha-ha! Dammit!"

"I don't believe a word of it!" declared the eldest Miss Ittlethwaite,—"I do not attend Mr. Walden's services myself, but I am quite sure he is an excellent man—and a perfect gentleman. Nothing that Tabitha Pippitt can ever say, will move me on that point!"

"I always had my suspicions!"—said Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, severely, when she in her turn heard the news—"I heard that Miss Vancourt had insisted—positively INSISTED on Mr. Walden's visiting her nearly every day, and I trembled for him! MY girls have gone quite crazy about Miss Vancourt ever since they met her at Sir Morton Pippitt's garden-party, but I have NEVER changed my opinion. MY poor mother always taught me to be firm in my convictions. And Miss Vancourt is a designing person. There's no doubt of it. She affects the innocence of a child—but I doubt whether I have ever met anyone QUITE so worldly and artful!"

So the drops of petty gossip began to trickle,—very slowly at first, and then faster and faster, as is their habitude in the effort to wear away the sparkling adamant of a good name and unblemished reputation. The Reverend Putwood Leveson, vengefully brooding over the wrongs which he considered he had sustained at the hands of Walden, as well as Julian Adderley, rode to and fro on his bicycle from morn till dewy eye, perspiring profusely, and shedding poisonous slanders almost as freely as he exuded melted tallow from his mountainous flesh, aware that by so doing he was not only ingratiating himself with the Pippitts, but also with Lord Roxmouth, through whose influence he presently hoped to 'get a thing or two.' Mordaunt Appleby, the Riversford brewer, and his insignificant spouse, irritated at never having had the chance to 'receive' Lord Roxmouth, were readily pressed into the same service and did their part of scandal-mongering with right good-will and malignant satisfaction. And in less than forty-eight hours' time there was no name too bad for the absent Maryllia; she was 'mixed up' with John Walden,—she had 'tried to entangle him'—there had been 'a scene with him at the Manor,'—she was 'forward,' 'conceited'—and utterly lost to any sense of propriety. Why did she not marry Lord Roxmouth? Why, indeed! Many people could tell if they chose! Ah yes!—and with this, there were sundry shakings of the head and shruggings of the shoulders which implied more than whole volumes of libel.

But while the county talked, the village listened, sagaciously incredulous of mere rumour, quiescent in itself and perfectly satisfied that whoever else was wrong, 'Passon Walden' in everything he did, said, or thought, was sure to be right. Wherefore, until they heard their 'man o' God's' version of the stories that were being so briskly circulated, they reserved their own opinions. The infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff was not more securely founded in the Roman Catholic Ritual than the faith of St. Rest in the 'gospel according to John.'