And I was right, as time showed.

We remained to the Communion. When that was over, we walked out of the old dark-roofed church, Adela looking as sad as ever, into the bright cold sunshine, which wrought no change on her demeanour. How could it, if the sun of righteousness, even, had failed for the time? And there, in the churchyard, we found Percy, standing astride of an infant’s grave, with his hands in his trowser-pockets, and an air of condescending satisfaction on his countenance, which seemed to say to the dead beneath him: “Pray, don’t apologize. I know you are disagreeable; but you can’t help it, you know;”

-and to the living coming out of church:

“Well, have you had your little whim out?”

But what he did say, was to Adela:

“A merry Christmas to you, Addie! Won’t you lean on me? You don’t look very stunning.”

But her sole answer was to take my arm; and so we walked towards the Swanspond.

“I suppose that’s what they call Broad Church,” said the colonel.

“Generally speaking, I prefer breadth,” I answered, vaguely. “Do you think that’s Broad Church?”

“Oh! I don’t know. I suppose it’s all right. He ran me through, anyhow.”

“I hope it is all right,” I answered. “It suits me.”

“Well, I’m sure you know ten times better than I do. He seems a right sort of man, whatever sort of clergyman he may be.”

“Who is he-can you tell me?”

“Why, don’t you know? That’s our new curate, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Curate!” I exclaimed. “A man like that! And at his years too! He must be forty.

You astonish me!”

“Well, I don’t know. He may be forty. He is our curate; that is all I can answer for.”

“He was my companion in the train last night.”

“Ah! that accounts for it. You had some talk with him, and found him out? I believe he is a superior sort of man, too. Old Mr. Venables seems to like him.”

“All the talk I have had with him passed between pulpit and pew this morning,” I replied; “for the only words that we exchanged last night were, ‘Will you join me in a cigar?’ from him, and ‘With much pleasure,’ from me.”

“Then, upon my life, I can’t see what you think remarkable in his being a curate. Though I confess, as I said before, he ran me through the body. I’m rather soft-hearted, I believe, since Addie’s illness.”

He gave her a hasty glance. But she took no notice of what he had said; and, indeed, seemed to have taken no notice of the conversation-to which Percy had shown an equal amount of indifference. A very different indifference seemed the only bond between them.

When we reached home, we found lunch ready for us, and after waiting a few minutes for Adela, but in vain, we seated ourselves at the table.

“Awfully like Sunday, and a cold dinner, uncle!” remarked Percy.

“We’ll make up for that, my boy, when dinner-time comes.”

“You don’t like Sunday, then, Mr. Percy?” I said.

“A horrid bore,” he answered. “My old mother made me hate it. We had to go to church twice; and that was even worse than her veal-broth. But the worst of it is, I can’t get it out of my head that I ought to be there, even when I’m driving tandem to Richmond.”

“Ah! your mother will be with us on Sunday, I hope, Percy.”

“Good heavens, uncle! Do you know what you are about? My mother here! I’ll just ring the bell, and tell James to pack my traps. I won’t stand it. I can’t.

Indeed I can’t.”

He rose as he spoke. His uncle caught him by the arm, laughing, and made him sit down again; which he did with real or pretended reluctance.

“We’ll take care of you, Percy. Never mind.-Don’t be a fool,” he added, seeing the evident annoyance of the young fellow.

“Well, uncle, you ought to have known better,” said Percy, sulkily, as, yielding, he resumed his seat, and poured himself out a bumper of claret, by way of consolation.

He had not been much of a companion before: now he made himself almost as unpleasant as a young man could be, and that is saying a great deal. One, certainly, had need to have found something beautiful at church, for here was the prospect of as wretched a Christmas dinner as one could ever wish to avoid.

When Percy had drunk another bumper of claret, he rose and left the room; and my host, turning to me, said:

“I fear, Smith, you will have anything but a merry Christmas, this year. I hoped the sight of you would cheer up poor Adela, and set us all right.