o other things--or
people--distress you?" he asks, presently, in a meaning tone. "Because
you have not uttered one word for quite five minutes."

"You have guessed correctly: some people do distress me--after a
time," says Mrs. Branscombe, so pointedly that Kennedy takes the
hint, and, shaking hands with her somewhat stiffly, disappears through
the door-way.

"Oh, yes," the vicar is saying to Clarissa, in a glad tone, that even
savors of triumph, "the Batesons have given up the Methodist chapel
and have come back to me. They have forgiven about the bread, though
they made a heavy struggle for it. Mrs. Redmond and I put our heads
together and wondered what we should do, and if we couldn't buy
anything there so as to make up for the loss of the daily loaves,
because she would not consent to poison the children."

"And you would!" says Clarissa, reproachfully. "Oh, what a terrible
admission!"

"We won't go into that, my dear Clarissa, if you please," says the
vicar, contritely. "There are moments in every life that one regrets.
But the end of our cogitations was this: that we went down to the
village,--Mrs. Redmond and I,--and, positively, for one bar of soap
and a package of candles we bought them all back to their pew in
church. You wouldn't have thought there was so much grace in soap and
candles, would you?" says the vicar, with a curious gleam in his eyes
that is half amusement, half contempt.

Even Georgie laughs a little at this, and comes nearer to them, and
stands close beside Clarissa, as if shy and uncertain, and glad to
have a sure partisan so near to her,--all which is only additional
pain to Dorian, who notices every lightest word and action of the
woman he has married.

"How did you get on to-day with your little people?" asks Mr. Redmond,
taking notice of her at once,--something, too, in her downcast
attitude appealing to his sense of pity. "Was that boy of the
Brixton's more than usually trying?"

"Well, he was bad enough," says Georgie, in a tone that implies she is
rather letting off the unfortunate Brixton from future punishment.
"But I have known him worse; indeed, I think he improves."

"Indeed, I think a son of his father could never improve," says the
vicar, with a melancholy sigh. "There isn't an ounce of brains in all
that family. Long ago, when first I came here, Sam Brixton (the father
of your pupil) bought a cow from a neighboring farmer called George
Gilbert, and he named it John. I