town. Whether the curate knew of his intention of resigning or not, his conduct in turning upon him and openly expressing his disbelief in his honesty was alike cruel and brutal. The man was false. The rector felt sure of it. But the pain which he experienced on this account-the pain of a generous man misunderstood and illrequited-soon gave way to self-reproach. He had brought the thing on himself by his indiscreet passion. He had acted like a boy! He was not fit to be in a responsible position !

While he was still full of this, chewing the cud of his imprudence, he saw a slender figure, which he recognised, crossing the street a little way before him. He knew it at the first glance. In a moment he recognised the graceful lines, the half-proud, half-gentle carriage of the head, the glint of the cold February sun in the fair hair. It was Kate Bonamy; and the rector, as he increased his pace, became conscious, with something like a shock, of the pleasure it gave him to see her, though he had parted from her not twenty-four hours before. In a moment he was at her side, and she, turning suddenly, saw him with a start of glad surprise. Mr. Lindo!' she stammered, holding out her hand before he offered his, and uttering the first words which rose to her lips, I am so glad!'

She 'was thinking of the pit accident, of the risk and his safety, and perhaps a little of his good name. And he understood. But he affected not to do so. Are you indeed, Miss Bonamy?' he answered. Glad that I am going?'

His eyes met hers, and then both his and hers fell. 'No,' she said gently and slowly. But I am very glad, Mr. Lindo, that you have done what seemed right to you without considering your own advantage.'

'I have done a great deal since I saw you yesterday,' he answered, taking refuge in a jest.

'You have, indeed.'

'Including taking your advice.'

'I am quite sure you had made up your mind before you asked my opinion,' she answered earnestly.

'No,' he said, 'I am sure I had not. It was your hint which led me to think the position out from the beginning. When I did so it struck me that, irritated by Lord Dynmore's words and manner, I had considered the question only as it affected him and myself. Going on to think of the parish, I came to the conclusion that I was quite unfit for the position.'

Kate started. The end of his sentence was a surprise to her. They were walking along side by side now-very slowly-and she looked at him, mute interrogation in her eyes.

'I am too young,' he said. 'Your father, you know, was of that opinion from the first.'

'Oh, but '—she answered hurriedly, ‘I———— ’

'You do not think so?' he said with a droll glance. 'Well, I am glad of that. What? You were not going to say that, Miss Bonamy?'

'No,' she answered, blushing. 'I was going to say that my father's opinion might not now be the same, Mr. Lindo.'

'I expect it is. However, the opinion on which I acted was my own. I have a very hasty temper, do you know. This very afternoon I have been quarrelling, and have put my foot into it! I confess I thought when I came here that I could manage. Now I see I am not fit for it—for the living, I mean.'

'Perhaps,' she answered slowly and in a low voice, 'you are the more fit because you feel unfit.'

'Well, I do not think I dare act on that,' he cried gaily. So you now see before you, Miss Bonamy, a very humble personage ---a kind of clerical man-of-all-work out of place! You do not know an incumbent of easy temper who wants a curate, do you?'

He spoke lightly, without any air of seeking or posing for admiration. Yet there was a little inflection of bitterness in his voice which did not escape her ear, and perhaps spoke to it-and to her heart-more loudly, because it was not intended for either. She suddenly looked at him, and her face quivered, and then she looked away. But he had seen and understood. He marked the colour rising to the roots of her hair, and was as sure as if he had seen them that her eyes were wet with tears.

And then he knew. He felt a sudden answering yearning towards her, a forgetfulness of all her surroundings, and of all his surroundings save herself alone. What a fool, what an ingrate, what a senseless clod he had been, not to have seen months beforewhen it was in his power to win her, when he might have asked for something besides her pity, when he had something to offer her—that she was the fairest, purest, noblest of women! Now, when it was too late, and he had sacrificed all to a stupid conventionality, a social prejudice-what was her father to her save the natural crabbed foil of her grace and beauty-now he felt that he

would give all, only he had nothing to give, to see her wide grey eyes grow dark with tenderness, and-and love.

Yes, love. That was it. He knew now. Miss Bonamy,' he said hurriedly. "Will you

,

Kate started. Here is my cousin,' she said quietly, and yet with suspicious abruptness. I think he is looking for me, Mr. Lindo.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE CUP AT THE LIP.

THE ten days which followed the events just described were long remembered in Claversham with fondness and regret. The accident at Baerton, and the strange position of affairs at the rectory, falling out together, created intense excitement in the town. The gossips had for once as much to talk about as the idlest could wish, and found, indeed, so much to say on the one side and the other, that the grocer, it was rumoured, ordered in a fresh supply of tea, and the two bakers worked double tides at making crumpets and Sally Lunns, and still lagged behind the demand. Old Peggy from the almshouse hung about the churchyard half the day, noting who called at the rector's; and took as much interest in her task as if her weekly dole had depended on Mr. Lindo's fortunes. While everyone who could lay the least claim to knowing more than his neighbours became for the time the object of as many attentions as a London belle.

The archdeacon drove in and out daily. Once the rumour got abroad that he had gone to see Lord Dynmore; and more than once it was said that he was away at the palace conferring with the bishop. Those most concerned walked the streets with the faces of sphinxes. The curate and the rector were known to be on the most distant terms; and to put an edge on curiosity, already keen, Mrs. Hammond was twice seen talking to Mr. Bonamy in the street.

Even the poor colliers' funeral, though a great number of the townsmen trooped out to the bleak little churchyard on Baer Hill to witness it-and to be rewarded by the sight of the young rector reading the service in the midst of a throng of bareheaded pitmen such as no Claversham eye had ever seen before—even this, which in ordinary times would have furnished food for talk for

a month at least, went for little now. It was discussed indeed for an evening, and then recalled only for the sake of the light which it was supposed to throw upon Mr. Lindo's fate.

That gentleman, indeed, continued to present to the public an unmoved face. But in private, in the seclusion of his study—the lordly room which he had prized and appreciated from the first, taking its spacious dignity as the measure of his success-he wore no mask. There he had—as all men have, the man of destiny and the conscript alike-his solitary hours of courage and depression, anxiety and resignation. Of hope also; for even now-let us not paint him greater than he was-he clung to the possibility that Lord Dynmore, whom everyone agreed in describing as irascible and hasty, but generous at bottom, would refuse to receive his resignation of the living, and this in such terms as would enable him to remain without sacrificing his self-respect. There would be a victory indeed, and at times he could not help dwelling on the thought of it.

Consequently, when Mrs. Baxter, four days after the funeral, ushered in the archdeacon, and the young rector, turning at his writing-table, read his fate in the old gentleman's eyes, the news came upon him with crushing weight. Yet he did not give way. He rose and welcomed his visitor with a brave face. So the bearer of the bow-string has come at last!' he said lightly, as the two met on the hearthrug.

6

The archdeacon held his hand a few seconds longer than was necessary. Yes,' he said, 'I am afraid that is about what I am. I am sorry to bring you such news, Lindo-more sorry than I can tell you.' And, having got so far, he dropped his hat and picked it up again in a great hurry, and for a moment did not look at his companion.

'After all,' the rector said manfully, 'it is the only news I had a right to expect.'

'There is something in that,' the archdeacon admitted, sitting down. That is so, perhaps. All the same,' he went on, looking about him unhappily, and rubbing his head in ill-concealed irritation, if I had known how the earl would take it, I should not have advised you to make any concessions. No, I should not. But, there, he is an odd man-odder than I thought.'

'He accepts my offer to resign, of course?'

'Yes.'

'And that is all?' the rector said, a little huskiness in his tone.

6 That is all,' the archdeacon replied, rubbing his head again. It was plain that he had hard work to keep his vexation within bounds. 'Well, I must not complain because he has taken me at my word,' the rector said, recovering himself a little.

'Well, I hoped the bishop might have had a word to say to it,' the archdeacon grumbled. 'But he had not, and I could not get to see his wife. He spoke very highly of your conduct, but he did not see his way clear, he said, to interfering.'

'I scarcely see how he could,' Lindo answered slowly.

'Well, I do not know. Bonamy's representation in the churchwardens' names was very strong-very strong indeed, coming from them, you know.'

Lindo reddened. 'There is an odd man for you, if you like,' he said impulsively. He was glad, perhaps, to change the subject. He has scarcely said a civil word to me since I came. He even began an action against me. Yet when this happened he turned round and in his way fought for me.'

'Well, that is Bonamy all over!' the archdeacon answered, almost with enthusiasm. He is rough and crabbed, but he has the instincts of a gentleman, which are the greater credit to him, since he is a self-made man. I think I can tell you something about him, though, which you do not know.'

Indeed?' said Lindo mechanically.

'Yes. It has to do with your letter, too. I had it from Lord Dynmore. In the first flush of his anger, it seems, he went to Bonamy and directed him to take the necessary steps to eject you. He is not the earl's solicitor, and he must have seen an excellent opportunity of getting hold of the Dynmore business through this. He could not but see it. Nevertheless, he declined." 'Why?' the rector asked shortly.

6

The archdeacon shrugged his shoulders. Ah! that I cannot say,' he answered.. I only know that he did, putting forward some scruple or other which sent the earl off almost foaming with rage; and, of course, sent off with him Bonamy's chance of his business.' 'He is a strange man!' Lindo sighed as he spoke.

The archdeacon took a turn up the room. Now,' he said, coming back, 'I want to talk to you about another man.' 'Clode?' the rector muttered.

'Well, yes; you have guessed it,' the elder clergyman assented. The truth is, I am to offer him the living if you report well of him.'