In every community or family there is generally one person who is strong enough to play the part of the cuckoo in the nest. The relative with a temper, who always gets his or her way—the bully of the tribe—the despot of the nation—these types are well-known if not appreciated. They dominate all those with whom they come in contact; they storm down opposition, and rule by sheer force of terror. Mrs. Darrow had the instinct and will to be one of this sort, but neither was her brain of sufficient capacity, nor her will sufficiently dogged to permit her attaining to such eminence. But the parish had its despot, and that in the person of Mrs. Parsley, the vicar's wife. She was a domestic Elizabeth crossed with Zantippe, and her sway was absolute.

Mr. Parsley—the Reverend Augustine—was a tall, imposing-looking man, who should surely have been a bishop if looks went to the making of one. He was learned in a dry-as-dust sort of way, and was at present engaged in writing a book on the Hebrew syntax, though of what use this would be to the world when it was finished—if it ever did reach the finite stage—no one knew, himself least of all. However, as Mrs. Parsley said, his labours served to keep him out of mischief, and therefore she encouraged him in his digging for Jewish roots.

For forty years had the Rev. Augustine been vicar of Lesser Thorpe, so by right of possession his wife had a title to her social throne. In contrast to her imposing husband, she was a dry chip of a woman, tall and marvellously lean, with a clacking tongue, a wonderful comprehensive vocabulary, and a thoracic resonance almost as deep as the vicar's. To hear the two of them discoursing was to listen to the bell of St. Paul's discoursing with Big Ben. As a rule, on such occasions, Mr. Parsley's part was closely analagous to that of confidant to a stage heroine, which is as much as to say he threw out remarks, provocative of arguments, recollections, scoldings, and scandal. Mrs. Parsley was a notable gossip, and had the history of the parish for the last forty years at the tip of her tongue. Her memory was renowned, her tongue was dreaded, and all, not excepting Mr. Barton, bowed to her sway.

Not for some considerable time after she had become a member of Mrs. Darrow's household did Miriam meet this formidable lady, for, taking into her head that she was threatened with pulmonary disease, Mrs. Parsley had insisted on starting for Davos Platz at a moment's notice, and on remaining there until she felt quite sure the dreaded visitor had given up all claim to her very imposing person.

For a wonder she left the Rev. Augustine behind, and he enjoyed his holiday prodigiously wrestling with the letter "Jod," while his curates—he had two of them, the meekest of their kind—attended to the church services and to the other spiritual requirements of his parish. When shortly before Christmas Mrs. Parsley returned, she immediately called at Pine Cottage to see the new governess of whom she had already heard the most conflicting accounts. Then a most wonderful thing happened—she took a fancy to Miriam.

More than this, Mrs. Parsley told Miriam so, and forthwith enrolled her under the Ægis of her own tongue, so that all gossip suddenly ceased, and Miriam was as much praised as formerly she had been blamed. For Mrs. Parsley approved of the way in which Dicky's education was being conducted, and congratulated Mrs. Darrow on having one sensible woman under her roof.

"The first time there has been any sense there to my knowledge," she sniffed, to which expression of opinion the widow did not dare to object lest worse should befall her. She had too many weak spots in her armour to allow of her defying Mrs. Parsley.

One consequence of all this was that Miriam visited the Vicarage frequently, and became as great a favourite of the Rev. Augustine's as she was of his wife's. He told her in his characteristic dreamy way that in Hebrew Miriam meant "the strong one," and that it was eminently suited to her, since she was strong of body, brain, and will. And Dicky sometimes went with Miriam, and played in Mr. Parsley's study, where he found many things grateful to his imaginative faculties. For the vicar was something of an antiquarian, and had a store of ancient coins, still more ancient images, and wonderful reproductions of Assyrian and Babylonian sculptures, all of which the child delighted in. It was always a happiness for Dicky to visit that wonder-room.

A week before Christmas the weather turned cold and raw. There had been a slight fall of snow, and, owing to the absence of sunshine, much of it still lay on the ground. A bitter wind swept inland from the sea, and whistled through the bare branches of the trees, so that the woods around reverberated like harp-strings. Night was drawing in, but in the Vicarage parlour all was snug and cosy. The vicar himself was buried in his books in his study. So Mrs. Parsley and her visitor had the drawing-room to themselves, and were drinking their tea before a bright and cheerful fire. As she listened to that never-failing verbal flow, Miriam threw in a word occasionally because she knew it was expected of her, and in order to show her appreciation of the words of wisdom showered upon her with such reckless prodigality. The conversation—or, to be more correct, the homily—turned upon the personality of Mr. Barton.

"He is a bad man," said Mrs. Parsley, shaking her head at the fire, "a free-thinker, and a walker in darkness. But we must not be too hard on him—indeed who could be hard upon a lunatic?"

"Do you really call Mr. Barton insane?" asked Miriam.

"Why not? I don't think he has ever been sane since he had brain fever!"

"I never knew that he had had brain fever."

"Yes, indeed—some thirty years ago—it was all about some woman, or rather women, I believe. I wonder you haven't heard about it."

Miriam judged it best to assume entire ignorance of Mr. Barton's past.

"Do tell me all about it, Mrs. Parsley," she entreated.

"Well, it's not a very complimentary story to our sex, my dear. But, there, I never did think much of women. Who could," she exclaimed, with sudden gusto, "when there are such fools as Mrs. Darrow and minxes like Hilda Marsh to be found in every parish? I'd give them both the ducking-stool if I could. Hilda—there's a smiling cat for you, and as deceitful as—as a weasel. She never helps her wretched mother, but thinks of nothing but dressing herself up in fripperies that are never paid for. She thinks to secure that idiot of a Gerald Arkel by her mincing. But she shan't. I'll put a stop to that. We've got more than enough with the two of them, without letting them marry and produce more fools."

"But about Mr. Barton?" asked Miriam, bringing the good lady back to the subject in hand. "I am very curious to hear this story of his."

"I can soon tell it to you. Barton was a younger son—a gay, light-hearted young fellow, not unlike Gerald Arkel, but of course with ten times the brains. He was engaged to marry a pretty, and, strange to say, sensible girl, who would no doubt have made him an excellent wife. But one of his sisters—Arkel's mother—took it upon her to interfere (so like them!), with the result that the girl married somebody else. Well, Barton, who was always a nervous, highly strung sort of creature, went off his head altogether, and was seriously bad for years. While he lived his elder brother looked after him, but unfortunately the brother died, and Barton came in for the property. He then had to go his own way, and a pretty mess he made of it."

"But what reason had his sister for interfering—surely it was very wrong?"

Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose, as she was wont to do when puzzled.

"Of course it was wrong, my dear; but I never did get at the exact truth. There was a great deal of talk about it at the time—some said one thing some another. Barton and Mrs. Arkel—she was Flora Barton then—held their tongues you may be sure. But I had my own opinion, and I still have it," concluded Mrs. Parsley, frowning at the fire.

"And what is it?" said Miriam. "But perhaps I should not ask."

"Oh yes, you may, my dear. You are very discreet I know. I don't mind telling you. Well, Flora was very much in love with a man named Farren, a penniless scamp though of good family. She ended by eloping with him, and Barton (our friend) followed her and brought her back. The man went off to India—was bribed to go! He's never been right in his head since either, I believe. Flora never forgave her brother, and out of revenge she made up some disgraceful story about him, and went straight with it to the girl with whom he was in love, a Miss Cotton, who, without giving him the benefit of the doubt, sent back his ring, and of course broke off the engagement. He tried to see her, but her mother, who was also prejudiced by Flora's story, took her away at once, and eventually the girl married some other man. The thing so preyed upon Barton's mind, that he got brain fever, as I told you, and Flora married—was forced, I think, to marry—Arkel. She had one son, and died. But Barton never forgave her. And," added Mrs. Parsley, with great emphasis, "that is the part I never could make out!"

"What do you mean?" asked Miriam, much interested.

"Why, when Arkel's father died, Barton took his nephew and had him educated, and, in fact, has allowed him an income ever since. From all accounts he intends to make him his heir. Now," said Mrs. Parsley, looking directly at Miriam, "why, I ask, should a vindictive creature like that be so kind to the son of the sister whom he detested?"

Miriam could have answered that question very quickly; but she felt she had no right to betray the Squire's confidence; she therefore contented herself with asking Mrs. Parsley in what particular way she considered Barton "queer."

"Oh, my dear!" and the good lady lifted up her hands, "have you seen the books in his library? Of all criminal literature!—I'd burn the whole lot if I could. The man has a perfect mania for reading about murders and robberies, and all that sort of thing. He goes up to London, and associates with the blackest criminals, haunts the slums; in fact, takes a fiendish delight in contemplating the worst side of human nature. A curate of ours, who went to work in the East End, saw him one day in the company of a Chinaman—fancy, a Chinaman! From that you may judge the sort of company he keeps in London. He's not only queer, in my opinion, but mad—right down mad!"

But all this did not let in much new light on the vagaries of the gentleman in question so far as Miriam could see. If he haunted the slums, as Mrs. Parsley said, she could easily understand how he came to be on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. What she could not explain, save by the theory of lunacy, was this criminal craze and love of associating with the lowest of human kind. And although she discussed this point thoroughly with Mrs. Parsley, that lady could supply no reason save the aforesaid one of "queerness," than which she did not think a stronger was necessary. So for the time being the subject dropped, and Mrs. Parsley, having finished her tea, and enjoyed it, was minded to "put on her things" preparatory to an evening jaunt.

"I will walk home a bit of the way with you, my dear," she said graciously. "I have to see old Pegwin, who is passing away rapidly. I must arrange with him about his funeral."

With this cheerful object Mrs. Parsley left the Vicarage with Miriam. There was a drizzling rain and a high wind, and walking was anything but pleasant. On the outskirts of the village—the church and Vicarage stood some way beyond it—Mrs. Parsley left Miriam to make the rest of her way home alone, and started down a side lane for the Pegwin cottage—so called—although it was little better than a pig-stye. As she battled against the wind, the lean figure of a ragged boy suddenly started out of the hedge, and ran past her in the direction Miriam had taken.

Mrs. Parsley, who knew every face in the village, saw that the boy was a stranger, and filled with curiosity immediately gave chase. In a very few moments she had the urchin by the scruff of the neck.

The boy wriggled and twisted, and kicked Mrs. Parsley's shins, but that indomitable lady held on, and whacked vigorously with her umbrella.

"You monkey," she raged, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"

He was a stunted, pale-faced brat, with a particularly repulsive countenance, rendered none the more inviting by his screwing it up with a leer.

"'Ere you, lemme alone, will yer?" he yelped, still wriggling. "I ain't a-doin' nothin' to yer, blarst yer!"

"Don't you swear at me, boy, or I'll have you locked up. Where do you come from?"

"Where d' yer think I come from—Paris? 'Tain't no bisness of yourn, any'ow."

"What are you doing here?"

"Shan't tell yer; wot's more, lady, I'll knife yer if yer don't lemme go; s'elp me, I will!" and the boy kicked again.

Mrs. Parsley shook him.

"You horrible little creature! how dare you speak like that to me? We want no vagrants here, so if you don't take yourself off out of this village I'll have you put in jail, do you understand?"

"Oh, my eye, 'ere's a bloomin' shaime," wailed the boy. "I ain't a-doin' no 'arm, mum. Father's 'ere, too, and I'm only a-goin' arter 'im. 'E's got a carawan 'e 'as, an' 'e's perfect rispect'bl'. Le' go o' me, will yer? I don't want t' 'urt yer!"

Mrs. Parsley was about to question him further, when, with a sudden wriggle, he escaped from her clutches, leaving the collar of his coat in her hand. Without even a look behind, he dodged up the lane, emitting sounds which Mrs. Parsley could only take to be derisive, and disappeared in the waning twilight. She would have followed, but as Pegwin demanded her attention, she was reluctantly obliged to forego the chase. In the meantime, like a hound on a scent, the boy had darted off in the direction Miriam had taken, and, having caught up with her, spoke to her.

"'Ere," he said hoarsely, "I want to speak to yer!"

"Shorty!" she exclaimed.

She recognised the creature at once. It was Shorty, the pilot-fish of the Jabez shark!