The Vicar was taking tea at Surley Rectory, after the afternoon service. Old Mr. Cooper, the Rector of Surley, was over eighty, and getting infirm. His daughters took all the responsibility for 'running the parish' off his hands, but ecclesiastical law forbade their taking the services in church, which otherwise they would have been quite willing to do, and he had to call in help from among his colleagues for this purpose, when he was laid up. There was no one more ready to help him than the Vicar of Abington. His own service was in the evening, and he was always willing to take that at Surley in the afternoon.

The living of Surley was a 'plum,' in the gift of the Bishop of the diocese. It was worth, 'gross,' over a thousand a year, and although its emoluments had shrunk to a considerably lower figure, 'net,' its rector was still to be envied as being in possession of a good thing. There was a large house and an ample acreage of glebe, all very pleasantly situated, so that Surley Rectory had the appearance and all the appanages of a respectable-sized squire's house, and was only less in importance in the parish than Surley Park, which it somewhat resembled, though on a smaller scale. Mr. Cooper had held it for close upon forty years, and had done very well out of it. His daughters would be well provided for, and if at any time he chose to retire he would have ample means, with the pension he would get from his successor, to end his days in the same sort of comfort as that in which he had lived there for so long. But he had become a little 'near' in his old age. He would not retire, although he was gradually getting past what little work he had to do himself, and he would not keep a curate. What he ardently wished was that his son, who had come to him late in life, should succeed him as Rector of Surley. Denis would be ready to be ordained in the following Advent, and would come to him as curate. If the old man managed to hang on for a few years longer it was his hope that Denis would so have established himself as the right man to carry on his work that he would be presented to the living. It was a fond hope, little likely of realisation. The Vicar of Abington was accustomed to throw scorn upon it when discussing the old man's ambitions with his wife. "If it were a question of private patronage," he said to her once after returning from Surley, "I don't say that it might not happen. But there would be an outcry if the Bishop were to give one of the best livings in his diocese to a young man who had done nothing to deserve it. Quite justifiably too. Livings like Surley ought to be given to incumbents in the diocese, who have borne the burden and heat of the day in the poorer livings. I'm quite sure the Bishop thinks the same. I was telling him the other day how difficult it would be for a man to live here, and do his work as it ought to be done, unless he had private means behind him; and he said that men who took such livings ought to be rewarded. It's true that there are other livings in the diocese even poorer than this, but I was going through them the other day and I don't think there's a man holds any of them who would be suitable for Surley. There's a position to keep up there, and it could not be done, any more than this can, without private means. I don't suppose Mr. Cooper will last much longer. I fancy he's going a little soft in the head already. This idea that there's any chance of Denis succeeding him seems to indicate it."

The Vicar, however, did nothing to discourage the old man's hopes when he so kindly went over to take his duty for him. Nor did he even throw cold water upon those which the Misses Cooper shared with their father on their brother's behalf, but encouraged them to talk about the future, and showed nothing but sympathy with them in their wishes.

They talked about it now over the tea-table, in the large comfortably furnished drawing-room, which was so much better than the drawing-room at Abington Vicarage, but would look even better than it did now if it had the Abington Vicarage furniture in it, and a little money spent to increase it. Perhaps the carpet, which was handsome, though somewhat faded, and the curtains, which matched it well, might be taken over at a valuation if it should so happen that——

"I think dear father is a little easier," Rhoda was saying, as she poured tea out of an old silver tea-pot into cups that had belonged to her grandmother. "We shan't get him up yet awhile though, or let him out till the weather turns fine again. Denis will be home next Sunday, and he can take the sendees now, with his lay-reader's certificate."

"But I shall be delighted to come over in the afternoons until your father is better," said the Vicar. "It has been a great pleasure to me to help an old friend."

"I'm sure you've been most kind, Mr. Mercer," said Ethel. "Later on, when Denis has to go back for his last term, we may have to call on you again. But it won't be for long now. When Denis is once ordained and settled down here we shall breathe again."

"I believe father will be better altogether when that happens," said Rhoda. "He can't get it out of his head that he may die before Denis is ready to take his place. I don't think there's any danger of it, but naturally, it depresses him. I'm afraid, if anything so dreadful were to happen, one could hardly expect the Bishop to keep the living open for Denis until he's priested. Do you think so, Mr. Mercer?"

"I shouldn't let the old gentleman think it couldn't happen, if I were you," said the Vicar.

"Oh, no; we do all we can to keep up his hopes. If only we could get the Bishop to make him some sort of a promise!"

"He won't do that, I'm afraid," said the Vicar.

"No, I'm afraid not. Did you know, Mr. Mercer, that Mrs. Carruthers was the Bishop's niece?"

"No, I didn't know that. Are you sure?"

"Yes; he told us so himself when Ethel and I went to call at the Palace. It was a little awkward for us, for, of course, they asked about her. But we were able to say that she had been abroad for some months, which, of course, they knew. So the subject passed off. But they are evidently rather fond of her, and when she comes back I think it is quite likely that they will come to stay with her."

This news wanted digesting. The Bishop of Med-Chester had only recently been appointed, and it would be rather an advantage to the neighbouring clergy for him to come amongst them more often than he would otherwise have done. But there were certain difficulties to be anticipated, since the lady who would attract him there had broken off relations with the clergy of her own parish, and the next.

It seemed already, however, to have been digested by the Misses Cooper. "We shall make friends with her again when she comes back," said Rhoda calmly. "We did make a mistake on the subject we quarrelled about, and there's no good saying we didn't. She behaved in a very unladylike way about it—I must say that; but if we can forgive it, and let bygones be bygones, I suppose she can. If she wished, she could probably do something to influence the Bishop about Denis. Denis had nothing to do with the cause of dispute, and used to be asked to the Park a good deal before we left off going there altogether. She always liked him, and in fact wanted to keep friends with him after she had been so rude to us; just as she did with father. That, of course, we couldn't have; but if we are all ready to make friends together again the objection will be removed. I think it is likely that her relationship to the Bishop will count for a good deal when it becomes necessary to appoint somebody to succeed dear father."

It did, indeed, seem likely. The Bishop, who was well connected, and thought to be a trifle worldly, had already, during his short term of office, instituted one incumbent on the recommendation of the Squire of the parish. The living was not a particularly good one, and the man was suitable; but there was the precedent. The betting, if there had been such a thing, on young Cooper's succeeding his father, would have gone up several points, on the relationship of Mrs. Carruthers to the Bishop becoming known.

"Personally," said the Vicar, "I was always inclined to like Mrs. Carruthers. I confess I was disturbed—even offended—when she refused to see me after her husband's death. But one can make excuses for a woman at such a time. One must not bear malice."

"Oh, no," said Rhoda. "Let's all forgive and forget. She is coming back in September, I believe. I should think you might see a good deal of her over at Abington, Mr. Mercer. She is bound to make friends with the Graftons. They're just her sort. Two very lively houses we have in our parishes, haven't we? Always somebody coming and going! I can't say I shall be sorry to be friends with Mrs. Carruthers again. It does cheer one up to see people from outside occasionally."

"Personally, I don't much care for this modern habit of week-end visiting in country houses," said Ethel. "It means that people are taken up with guests from outside and don't see so much of their neighbours. In old Mr. Carruthers's time, they had their parties, for shooting and all that, but there were often people who stayed for a week or two, and one got to know them. And, of course, when the family was here alone, there was much more coming and going between our two houses. It was much more friendly."

"I agree with you," said the Vicar. "And the clergyman of the parish ought to be the chief friend of his squire, if his squire is of the right sort. Unfortunately, nowadays, he so often isn't."

"But you haven't much to complain about, have you, Mr. Mercer?" enquired Rhoda. "I have always thought you got on so extremely well with the Graftons."

"We have often envied you having such a nice house to run in and out of," said Ethel, "when you told us how welcome they made you. Especially with those pretty girls there," she added archly.

"We've thought sometimes that you were rather inclined to forsake old friends for their sake," said Rhoda.

The Vicar was dragged by two opposing forces. On the one hand he was unwilling to destroy the impression that he was hand in glove with the family of his squire; on the other hand the wounds of vanity needed consolation. But these were old friends and would no doubt understand, and sympathise.

"To tell you the truth they haven't turned out quite as well as I hoped they might at the beginning," he said. "There are a good many things I don't like about them, although in others I am perhaps, as you say, fortunate."

Rhoda and Ethel pricked up their ears. This was as breath to their nostrils.

"Well, now you've said it," said Rhoda, "I'll confess that we have sometimes wondered how long your infatu—your liking for the Graftons would last. They're not at all the sort of people we should care to have living next door to us."

"Far from it," said Ethel. "But, of course, we couldn't say anything as long as they seemed to be so important to you."

"What is there that you particularly object to in them?" asked the Vicar in some surprise. "I thought you did like them when you went over there at first."

"At first, yes," said Rhoda; "except that youngest one, Barbara. She pretended to be very polite, but she seemed to be taking one off all the time."

"I know what you mean," said the Vicar uneasily. "I've sometimes almost thought the same myself. But I think it's only her manner. Personally I prefer her to the other two. She isn't so pretty, but——"

"I don't deny Caroline and Beatrix's prettiness," said Rhoda. "Some girls might say they couldn't see it, but thank goodness I'm not a cat. Still, good looks, to please me, must have something behind them, or I've no use for them."

"They're ill-natured—ill-natured and conceited," said Ethel. "That's what they are, and that's what spoils them. And the way they go on with their father! 'Darling' and 'dearest' and hanging round him all the time! It's all show-off. They don't act in that way to others."

"I dare say Mr. Mercer wishes they did," said Rhoda, who was not altogether without humour, and also prided herself on her directness of speech.

"Indeed not!" said the Vicar indignantly. "I quite agree with Miss Ethel. I dislike all that petting and kissing in company."

"I only meant that they are not so sweet as all that inside," said Ethel. "I'm sure Rhoda and I did our best to make friends with them. They are younger than we are, of course, and we thought they might be glad to be taken notice of and helped to employ and interest themselves. But not at all. Oh, no. They came over here once, and nothing was good enough for them. They wouldn't do this, and they didn't care about doing that, and hadn't time to do the other. At last I said, 'Whatever do you do with yourselves then, all day long? Surely,' I said, 'you take some interest in your fellow-creatures!'—we'd wanted them to do the same sort of thing at Abington as we do here, and offered to bicycle over there as often as they liked to help and advise them. Caroline looked at me, and said in a high and mighty sort of way, 'Yes we do; but we like making friends with them by degrees.' Well now, I call that simply shirking. If we had tried to run this parish on those lines—well, it wouldn't be the parish it is; that's all I can say."

"They are of very little use in the parish," said the Vicar. "I tried to get them interested when they first came, and asked them to come about with me and see things for themselves, but I've long since given up all idea of that. And none of them will teach in the Sunday-school, where we really want teachers."

"Yes, I suppose you do," said Rhoda. "Until Mollie Walter came I suppose you had hardly anybody. How do they get on with Mollie Walter, by the by? Or don't they get on. She'd hardly be good enough for them, I suppose."

"Far from that," said the Vicar, "they are spoiling Mollie completely. She used to be such a nice simple modest girl; well, you often said yourselves that you would like to have a girl like that to help you in the parish."

"Yes, we did," said Ethel. "And she used to be so pleased to come over here and to be told how to do things. Now I think of it she hardly ever does come over now. So that's the reason, is it? Taken up by the Graftons and had her head turned. Well, all I can say is that when she does deign to come over here again, or we go and see her, we shan't stand any nonsense of that sort. If she wants a talking to she can get it here."

"I wish you would talk to her," said the Vicar. "I've tried to do so, seeing her going wrong, and thinking it my duty; but she simply won't listen to me now. They've entirely altered her, and I whom she used to look up to almost as a father am nothing any more, beside them."

"That's too bad," said Rhoda. "And you used to make such a pet of her."

"Well, I don't know that I ever did that," said the Vicar. "Of course I was fond of the child, and tried to bring her out; but I was training her all the time, to make a good useful woman of her. Her mother was grateful to me for it, I know, and she herself has often told me what a different life it was for her from the one she had been living, and how happy she was at Abington in their little cottage, and having us as their friends. Well she might be too! We've done everything for that girl, and this is the return. I haven't yet told you what disturbs me so much. You know how I dislike those noisy rackety Pembertons."

"Why I thought you were bosom friends with them again," said Rhoda. "Mr. Brill came over the other day—Father Brill I refuse to call him—and said he had met you and Mrs. Mercer dining there."

"Oh, one must dine with one's neighbours occasionally," said the Vicar, "unless one wants to cut one's self off from them entirely. Besides, I thought I'd done them an injustice. Mrs. Pemberton had done me the honour to consult me about certain good works that she was engaged in, and I did what I could, naturally, to be helpful and to interest myself. Why she did it I don't know, considering that when I took the trouble to bicycle over there last I was informed that she was not at home, although, if you'll believe me, there was a large party there, the Graftons and Mollie among them, playing tennis."

"Mollie! I didn't know she knew the Pembertons! She is getting on! No wonder her head's turned!"

"What I wanted to tell you was that young Pemberton met her at the Abbey some time ago, when the Graftons first came, and took a fancy to her. It was he who got her asked over to Grays, and she actually went there before Mrs. Pemberton had called on Mrs. Walter. Now I ask you, is that the proper way for a girl to behave?"

"Well, you haven't told us how she does behave yet," said Rhoda. "Has she taken a fancy to young Pemberton? It would be a splendid match for her."

The Vicar made an exclamation of impatience. "Is it likely, do you think, that he has anything of that sort in his head?" he asked. "He's just amusing himself with a pretty girl, and thinks he can do what he likes with her, because she's beneath him in station. It makes my blood boil. And there's the girl lending herself to it—in all innocence, of course; I know that—and nobody to give her a word of warning."

"Haven't you given her a word of warning?" asked Ethel.

"I tried to do so. But she misunderstood me. I've said that it's all innocence on her part. And it's difficult for a man to advise in these matters."

"Couldn't Mrs. Mercer?"

"My wife doesn't see quite eye to eye with me in this, unfortunately. She thinks I made a mistake in mentioning the matter to Mollie at all. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd left it to her. But she couldn't do anything now."

"Couldn't you say anything to Mrs. Walter?"

"I did that. She was there when I talked to Mollie. I'm sorry to say that she took offence. I ought really to have talked to them separately. They listened to what I had to say at first, and seemed quite to realise that a mistake had been made in Mollie going over to Grays in that way before Mrs. Pemberton had called on Mrs. Walter. It was even doubtful at that time whether she would call on her, although she did so afterwards. But when I mentioned young Pemberton, they simply wouldn't listen to me. Mollie went out of the room with her head in the air, and Mrs. Walter took the line that I had no right to interfere with the girl at all in such matters as that. Why, those are the very matters that a man of the world, as I suppose one can be as well as being a Christian, ought to counsel a girl about, if he's on such terms with her as to stand for father or brother, as I have been with Mollie. Don't you think I'm right?"

"Well, I don't know," said Rhoda. "If she'd just taken it naturally, and hadn't been thinking of any harm, it would be likely to offend her to have it put to her in that way; especially if she was inclined to like him and didn't know it yet."

"Perhaps it was a mistake," the Vicar admitted again. "I suppose I ought to have talked to Mrs. Walter first. But they had both been so amenable in the way they had taken advice from me generally, in things that they couldn't be expected to know about themselves, and so grateful for my friendship and interest in them, that it never occurred to me not to say exactly what I thought. One lives and learns. There's very little real gratitude in the world. Mollie has got thoroughly in with the Graftons now, and all I've done for her goes for nothing, or very little. And even Mrs. Walter has laid herself out to flatter and please them, in a way I didn't think it was in her to do. She is always running after Miss Waterhouse, and asking her to the Cottage. They both pretend that nothing is altered—she and Mollie—but it's plain enough that now they think themselves on a level with the Graftons—well, they have got where they want to be and can kick down the ladder that led them there. That's about what it comes to, and I can't help feeling rather sore about it. Well, I've unburdened myself to you, and it's done me good. Of course you'll keep what I say to yourselves."

"Oh, of course," said Rhoda. "Confidences with us are sacred. Then Mollie still goes over to Grays? Her mother lets her?"

"She goes over with the Graftons. I don't fancy she has been by herself; but I never ask. I don't mention the subject at all, and naturally they would be ashamed of bringing it up themselves before me."

"The Grafton girls back her up, of course!"

"I'm afraid they do. And I hardly like to say it, or even to think it, but Mollie must have given them quite a wrong impression of what was said after she had dined at Grays with them. There is a difference in their behaviour towards me, and I can hardly help putting it down to that. I used to get such a warm welcome at the Abbey, whenever I liked to go there. I could always drop in for a cup of tea, or at any time of the day, and know that they were pleased to see me. When their father was up in town I may have been said really to have looked after them, as was only natural under the circumstances, and everybody was glad to have it so. But now it is entirely different. There is a stiffness; a formality. I no longer feel that I am the chosen friend of the family. And I'm bound to put it down to Mollie. I go in there sometimes and find her with them, and—oh, but it's no use talking about it. I must say, though, that it's hard that everything should be upset for me just because I have not failed in my duty. Standing as I do, for the forces of goodness and righteousness in the parish, it's a bitter disappointment to have my influence spoilt in this fashion; and when at first I had expected something so different."

"Mr. Grafton seldom goes to church, does he?"

"He has disappointed me very much in that way. I thought he would be my willing helper in my work. But he has turned out quite indifferent. And not only that. Barbara would have been confirmed this year if they had been in London. They told me that themselves. Of course I offered to prepare her for confirmation myself, as they decided to stay here. They shilly-shallied about it for some time, but a fortnight ago Miss Waterhouse informed me that she would not be confirmed till next year."

"That's not right," said Ethel decisively. "She ought to have been confirmed long ago."

The Vicar got up to leave. "I'm afraid they've very little sense of religion," he said. "Well, one must work on, through good report and ill report. Some day, perhaps, one will get the reward of all one's labours. Good-bye, dear ladies. It has done me good to talk it all over with you. And it is a real joy to rest for a time in such an atmosphere as this. I will come again next Sunday."

They saw him to the hall door and watched him ride off on his bicycle. Then they returned in some excitement to the drawing-room.

"The fact is that he's put his foot in it, and had a sound snub," said Rhoda.

"He's behaved like a fool about Mollie, and now he's as jealous as a cat because she's left him for somebody else," said Ethel.