The squire of Woodlea’s pew was at one side of the old-fashioned country church, and Mr. Churchill’s family occupied seats in the gallery. Therefore John Temple, looking up, saw the entrance of May Churchill and the two boys, and saw also the blush, the look of unmistakable joy, with which she recognized himself.

Other eyes saw this, too; a pair of handsome dark eyes that belonged to Mrs. Temple, who had followed her nephew-in-law’s upward glance, and watched, half with amusement, half with scorn, his brown face color slightly, and a soft look steal over his good-looking face. She also had seen the entrance of the three young Churchills, and drew her own conclusions from John’s expression. He had only arrived at the Hall the evening before, and had in the morning expressed a wish to attend the service at the parish church, somewhat to Mrs. Temple’s surprise.

“I thought going to church would not have been in your way,” she had said at the time.

“I have never heard your father preach,” answered John, smiling.

“You will fall asleep during the sermon—I warn you,” answered Mrs. Temple, also smiling.

“I am a bad sleeper, so that will be delightful,” said John.

The squire was ailing, and had a cold, and therefore did not go to church, so Mrs. Temple and John alone occupied the Hall pew. And when she saw the look on May Churchill’s face, and the look on John Temple’s as their eyes met, she understood why her husband’s nephew had wished to hear her father preach. That look indeed had thrilled through both their hearts. Yet, as John’s eyes fell, he sighed softly, and Mrs. Temple heard the sigh.

But May did not sigh. He had come back; she would see him again, and when she did see him she would tell him she had made the decision he had asked for. She sat there between her two young brothers with her heart beating tumultuously, beating with joy and hope.

Presently Hal Churchill gave a little kick at her small foot.

“I say, May,” he said in a loud whisper, bending his head toward his sister’s ear, “d’ye see who’s in the squire’s pew?”

May made no answer. She frowned, or rather pretended to frown, and Hal went on unabashed:

“I heard he’d come back last night, but forgot to tell you,” continued Hal.

“Horrid boy,” thought May, remembering some sleepless hours she had spent grieving over John Temple’s absence.

The service went on; the weak-eyed curate, who also admired May Churchill, looked up to the gallery occasionally, and so did Mrs. Layton. This good lady repeated the responses in a loud tone, so as to let all those around her know how pious she was, yet she was not above worldly thoughts at the same time. She disapproved of May Churchill’s picture hat and picture face. She was wondering what the world was coming to when tenant farmers’ daughters dressed as May was dressed. She repeated, “Have mercy upon us miserable sinners,” but she did not really include herself in that category. She prayed for her neighbors, but not for herself, and she was greatly troubled in spirit concerning May Churchill’s picture hat.

Presently the vicar ascended the pulpit, and in his usual monotonous under-tone proceeded with his usual platitudes. A worthy man this, but misty, and perhaps his brain was mercifully clouded. It made his daily life more bearable, his scolding eager wife more endurable, and, taking all things into consideration, it was well for the Rev. James that he was not a clever nor keen-eyed man. His congregation, who expected nothing new from him, each settled him or herself to their private thoughts. The men, as a rule, mentally did their weekly accounts over, the women the cost of their neighbor’s dress and their own proposed new personal adornments. John Temple moved his seat to a convenient corner, whispering smilingly to his aunt-in-law as he passed her:

“It is true, I am actually going to sleep.”

Mrs. Temple smiled in return, and looked at John as he closed his eyes and leaned back his head against the curtained pew. But though he closed his eyes he did not go to sleep, nor had the slightest inclination to do so. Through those closed lids he still mentally saw the lovely face in the gallery beyond; still saw the glad look with which the Mayflower had greeted his return.

Mrs. Temple noticed his face flush, though he never opened his eyes. She kept looking at him and wondering what his life had been before her own terrible loss had made him the heir of Woodlea. She had expected to dislike him, almost to hate him, but she did not. His good looks favorably influenced her for one thing, and his pleasant, sympathetic manner for another. There is really no such lasting charm as this. But it is born with the man or woman who possesses it. It is the reflection from their hearts as it were; the outcome of the inner sense that understands the feelings of others and never wounds them.

John Temple possessed this gift, to some extent at least, though not in the highest sense. But at all events he never said unsuitable things, nor hit the wrong nail on the head. Some people seemingly can not help doing this. With the best intentions they ruffle our tempers, and we are glad when they go out of our sight.

So Mrs. Temple kept looking at John, and speculating as to his past.

“He is good-looking, but scarcely handsome,” she thought, and then she sighed, and her memory went back to the days of her soldier-lover, now lying in his Indian grave.

“If I had married George Hill, I would have been a good woman,” she was thinking. “Now what have I to be good for?”

She glanced contemptuously, as the thought struck her first, at her poor misty father in the pulpit, and then at her eager, watchful mother in the vicar’s pew below.

“They sold me,” she was reflecting, “and what I can give them is all they care for. Ah, it is a weary world.”

She moved, so impatiently that John Temple opened his gray eyes. The sermon was now drawing to a close, for one good quality the Rev. James Layton really did possess was not to preach too long sermons. And the moment the blessing was over Mrs. Temple rose hastily and signed to John to follow her. She wished to leave the church before her mother had an opportunity of joining her, for Mrs. Layton seldom ordered a Sunday dinner, but in general, and always if she could manage it, dined when the family at the Hall had luncheon in the middle of the day.

John looked up at the gallery as he followed Mrs. Temple out of the church, and half-smiled as his eyes met May’s, and this smile was reflected on her rosy lips. A moment later Mrs. Layton also looked up over her clasped hands, and to her consternation when she glanced at her daughter’s pew, she saw she was gone. Then she rose hastily from her knees and hurried out by the vestry door, only to be in time to see the Hall carriage disappear out of the churchyard, with her daughter and John Temple seated in it.

She ran to the churchyard gate; she frantically waved her umbrella, but all in vain. Mrs. Temple either did not, or pretended not to see her mother, and with a rueful heart Mrs. Layton had to turn and face the out-coming congregation, who were greatly amused at her discomfiture.

And she had very good cause for this feeling. She had in fact ordered no dinner for herself nor her husband at the vicarage, having securely reckoned on lunching at the Hall.

“Rachel should be ashamed of herself,” she reflected, angrily, as she returned to the vestry, “to treat her parents so, after all I have done for her.”

Only broken her daughter’s heart! This was what Mrs. Layton had done, and she considered her conduct meritorious. But she had no time for further reflection. In the vestry the vicar was divesting himself of his limp surplice, and his wife felt she must act.

“James,” she said, “I am just going to walk over to the Hall for lunch, and you must follow.”

“Did Rachel ask us?” inquired the vicar, weakly, for he also had been looking forward to the good things on the squire’s table, and a glass or two of the squire’s good wine.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Layton, mendaciously, “but I stayed behind to tell you not to be long. I will walk on, as they always have lunch much earlier on Sundays.”

And Mrs. Layton did walk on. She went at a brisk rate, for she was determined not to be cheated out of her dinner by her ungrateful daughter. She therefore arrived at the Hall somewhat heated in mind and body.

“The family are at lunch, madam,” the footman who opened the door informed her, but, nothing daunted, Mrs. Layton walked coolly to the dining-room, and entered unannounced.

The gray-haired squire, who was sitting at the table, rose to receive her, after giving one inquiring glance at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders slightly in reply.

“I wished to see you, Rachel,” began Mrs. Layton, who was very hot, “but you hurried away from church so quickly that I had not the opportunity, and so I followed you on here.”

“Pray be seated, Mrs. Layton,” said Mr. Temple, courteously. “James,” this was to the footman, “place a chair for Mrs. Layton.”

“I must say I feel rather tired,” continued Mrs. Layton, “and shall be glad of a glass of wine. Thanks, Mr. Temple, I know your good wine of old, and I hope you will excuse me when I tell you that I have taken the liberty of asking the vicar to follow me here. I wished to see you, Rachel, on a little business that I could not defer.”

“I dare say it would have waited,” answered Mrs. Temple, coolly. She was annoyed at her mother’s appearance, and she did not care to hide this, nor did she extend any warm welcome to her father when the good vicar came shambling in.

“Your mother said you had kindly invited us, my dear,” explained the vicar. “I am sorry I am late, but there were several things I had to see about before I could leave the vestry.”

“Oh, it is all right,” said Mrs. Temple. At this moment she felt sorry for her poor down-trodden father. She heaped good things on his plate, and ordered some of his favorite old port to be placed on the table. She took very little notice of her mother; she had in truth an immense contempt for the scheming, untruthful little woman who had given her birth.

Mrs. Layton still felt angry, but her anger did not interfere with her appetite. She ate and drank to her heart’s content, and then she began talking to John Temple.

“So you were at church this morning, Mr. John?” she said. “Well, it’s a poor place, and needs a great deal of alteration, but all these things cost money.”

The squire turned a deaf ear to his mother-in-law’s remark, but John answered courteously:

“I thought it all seemed very nice,” he answered. “Of course, you can not expect everything in an old-fashioned country church.”

“Yes, old-fashioned, that is the word,” echoed Mrs. Layton, eagerly. “Look at those galleries! Did you ever see such things? They should come down, but as I said before it all costs money, and people won’t give it, and the vicar won’t rouse himself.”

The vicar looked mildly up from his plate at this remark, and that was all.

“And talking of the galleries,” went on Mrs. Layton, speaking with great rapidity, “did you notice that absurd hat that Margaret Churchill wore this morning? Absolutely preposterous! I suppose that is what you call a picture hat?” she added, looking at her daughter.

“I thought it seemed a very elegant affair!” scoffed Mrs. Temple. “What did you think of it, my nephew John?”

“Don’t be shocked at my bad taste when I confess I never noticed it,” replied John Temple, smiling.

“You only saw the face beneath?” questioned Mrs. Temple.

John made a sarcastic bow.

“Now you compliment my good taste,” he said.

“Well, people call her handsome, and she may be good-looking; I suppose she is,” said Mrs. Layton, viciously, “but I have a very poor opinion of Margaret Churchill. If you believe it, I am told she is now once more endeavoring to entangle young Henderson of the Grange, in spite of the terrible scandal about him. I hear they invite him to the house, and that he buys horses of the old man, and that the new Mrs. Churchill is bent on the match.”

John Temple felt a strong wave of anger rise in his heart, but he prudently checked it before it reached his tongue.

“Well,” he said, rising from the table, “I will leave you two ladies for the present, if Mrs. Temple will excuse me? I have some letters to write, and afterward I think I shall go out; it is too fine a day to spend indoors.”

“Of course, please yourself,” answered Mrs. Temple, carelessly. She did not like John leaving her thus, to be bored by her mother’s company, but she stood on small ceremony.

“I am tired; I will lie down and read in my own room for an hour or two, I think,” she said. “Good-day, mother.”

She just extended the tips of her slender fingers to Mrs. Layton as she spoke, and then rose languidly and left the room.

The squire was thus left alone with the vicar and his mother-in-law. But he also was tired of both. He retired into an easy chair, and put his handkerchief over his face to announce that he wanted a little rest.

“Ah, I see you want a little doze, squire,” cried Mrs. Layton, observing this. “Well, James,” she continued, addressing her husband, “I will just take another glass of port and then we must be off. It’s well for those who can afford to take rest, but a poor parson and his wife can not.”

The squire made no reply to this, and Mrs. Layton, having drank her port, took her leave, remarking to her husband as they quitted the house together:

“Poor man, he is evidently failing fast.”

“Thank heavens she is gone!” exclaimed the squire with energy, pulling the handkerchief from his face as he heard their retreating footsteps. “What a woman! She’s enough to drive anyone mad.”