housekeeper left in charge had been wicked enough to get her newspaper
that day, Alfred felt that in Harold's place he should be sorely tempted
to chuck it over the hedge. Ellen looked as if he had talked of
murdering her, and truly such a breach of trust would have been a very
grievous fault.

'The Reverend--what's his name? the Reverend Marcus Cope, Friarswood,
near Elbury,' read Alfred; 'one, two, three letters, and a newspaper.
Yes, and this long printed-looking thing. Who is he, Ellen?'

'What did you say?' said Ellen, who was busy shaking her mother's bed,
and had not heard at the first moment, but now turned eagerly; 'what did
you say his name was?'

'The Reverend Marcus Cope,' repeated Alfred. 'Is that another new
parson?'

'Why, did not we tell you what a real beautiful sermon the new clergyman
preached on Sunday? Mr. Cope, so that's his name. I wonder if he is
come to stay.--Mother,' she ran to the head of the stairs, 'the new
clergyman's name is the Reverend Mr. Marcus Cope.'

'He don't live at Ragglesford, I hope!' cried Harold, who regarded any
one at the end of that long lane as his natural enemy.

'No, it only says Friarswood,' said Ellen. 'You'll have to find out
where he lives, Harold.'

'Pish! it will take me an hour going asking about!' said Harold
impatiently. 'He must have his letters left here till he chooses to come
for them, if he doesn't know where he lives.'

'No, no, Harold, that won't do,' said Mrs. King. 'You must take the
gentleman his letters, and they'll be sure to know at the Park, or at the
Rectory, or at the Tankard, where he lodges. Well, it will be a real
comfort if he is come to stop.'

So Harold went off with the letters and the pony, and Ellen and her
mother exchanged a few words about the gentleman and his last Sunday's
sermon, and then Ellen went to dust the shop, and put out the bread,
while her mother attended to Alfred's wound, the most painful part of the
day to both of them.

It was over, however, and Alfred was resting afterwards when Harold
cantered home as hard as the pony could or would go, and came racing up
to say, 'I've seen him! He's famous! He stood out in the road and met
me, and asked for his letters, and he's to be at the Parsonage, and he
asked my name, and then he laughed and said, "Oh! I perceive it is the
royal mail!" I didn't know what he was at, but he looked as
good-humoured as anything. Halloo! give me my old hat, Nell--that's