Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour.

There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold.

Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender.

For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while Mrs. Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen—to set the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house.

Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantel-shelf, within convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs. Morgan having closed it after her as she went out.

There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be re-opened, and someone to enter.

And so is he, though Mrs. Morgan herself is not the someone—but her daughter. Gregorie Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth—before assuming the cassock a very mauvais sujet. Even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of Olympe, nÉe Renault. She is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional.

But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other Lucretia—victim of Tarquin fils. And the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary Morgan for a wife—he does not wish to—but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher—not all unselfish.

Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs. Morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table in a trice.

Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks, in a drawl of assumed indifference,—

"Where is Ma'mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?"

"Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I'm happy to say."

"Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself—on my account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when I come to pay you these little visits—calls of duty. Above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire."

"She's not—nothing of the kind, Father Rogier."

"Dressing, may be? That isn't needed either—to receive poor me."

"No; she's not dressing."

"Ah! What then? Pardon me for appearing inquisitive. I merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in—relating to a matter of the Sunday school. She's at home, isn't she?"

"Not just this minute. She soon will be."

"What! Out at this hour?"

"Yes; she has gone up to the Ferry on an errand. I wonder you didn't meet her! Which way did you come, Father Rogier—the path or the lane?"

"Neither—nor from the Ferry. I've been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. It's rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! Not alone, I take it?"

"Yes; she went alone."

"But why, madame?"

Mrs. Morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now.

"Well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing matter—as you'll say yourself, when I tell it you."

"Tell it, pray!"

"It's all through a cat—our big Tom."

"Ah, Tom! What jeu d'esprit has he been perpetrating?"

"Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle—indeed, broke it to pieces."

"Chat maudit! But what has that to do with your daughter's going to the Ferry?"

"Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy—unfortunately the only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else I could spare. So I've sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know your reverence prefers brandy to wine."

"Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But I'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold."

"Don't say that, Father Rogier. Please don't. Mary didn't think it disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is—I'm sorry to tell you—and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all palatable."

"You underrate your menu, madame, if it be anything like what I've been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret at ma'mselle's having been sent to the Ferry—the roads in such condition. And so dark, too—she may have a difficulty in finding her way. Which did she go by—the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory to myself—almost verbatim—c'est drole!"

With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder:

"Indeed, I can't say which. I never thought of asking her. However, Mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the foot-plank a night like this. She knows it's loose. Ah!" she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon up! I'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home."

"How long is it since she went off?"

Mrs. Morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming:

"Mercy me! It's half-past nine! She's been gone a good hour!"

Her surprise is natural. To Rugg's Ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has not kept it! And what can be keeping her?

Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain—greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says:

"Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?"

"If your reverence would. But please don't stay for her. Supper's quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder what's detaining Mary!"

If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one.

"No matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go——"

The priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. He is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat—without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes—then glides out and off across the garden.

Mrs. Morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. Perhaps she too has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. Or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. Whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper.

If she but knew the tale he, Father Rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead!